


La Pucelle et la Coccinelle

by amiraculousladybug



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate History, Angst and Tragedy, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Catholic Character, Gen, Hundred years' war, Imprisonment, Non-Graphic Violence, Previous Ladybug, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiraculousladybug/pseuds/amiraculousladybug
Summary: Long, long ago, magical jewelry was created which could grant its bearers incredible powers—the Miraculous. Throughout history, this jewelry has been used time and again by heroes for the sake of humanity. And never has France needed a hero more than now. Embroiled in the Hundred Years' War, the nation's losses against Great Britain are piling up higher and higher, and the dauphin doesn't seem inclined to step up to the throne any time soon. The French are more demoralized than ever. Without anything or anyone to inspire them, hopes have fallen and shrunk and perished.In the village of Domremy, a sixteen-year-old girl named Joan finds a curious box at her bedside … a curious box containing a pair of earrings.Told through Tikki's eyes, the story of the young woman who would later be called “the most extraordinary person the human race has ever produced” unfolds.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a really big Joan of Arc nerd. Joan of Arc is one of my favorite saints so I wanted to try to do her story justice in the Miraculous Ladybug universe by not taking away who she was at heart. I really hope that you all enjoy.  
> Huge shoutout to australianotaku for being my beta and putting up with my very last-minute Google Doc uploads, and to professaurus for the absolutely gorgeous cover art at the end of the first chapter. I can't thank you guys enough!

Long, long ago, magical jewelry was created which could grant its bearers incredible powers—the Miraculous. Throughout history, this jewelry has been used time and again by heroes for the sake of humanity. The most powerful of the Miraculous are the ring of the black cat, which carries powers of destruction, and the earrings of …

“Tikki.”

Nestled inside her Miraculous, the ladybug kwami stirred. She recognized the great guardian's voice when she heard it, and she knew he would never call her without a very good reason. The jewelry box holding the earrings was opened moments later. Tikki, now released from her Miraculous, flew up to hover before the great guardian.

It was evident that she hadn't been released in a long time. The last time she had spoken with the great guardian face to face, he had been a middle-aged but still very spry man, just beginning to gray at the temples, with all the energy of his youth intact. Now, however, his hair was a shock of gray, and prominent crow's feet framed his eyes. He had always been careful about handing out the Miraculous to new wielders, but this, she thought, was a little much. If she had to guess, she would have estimated the time since her last release to be a span of about sixty years, maybe more. His expression was grim.

“Master,” she greeted him. “What's wrong?”

“It's the war, Tikki,” he explained without preamble. He had always been like this, so direct, so open with his concerns. It was a good quality, one Tikki thought suited his role as the guardian quite well. She'd have thought he hadn't changed at all in the past sixty years if it weren't for the weariness in his voice that wouldn't have been there sixty years ago. Ah, she thought, something had broken him. Perhaps he and Wayzz were no longer able to fight on the field as they once could. He was getting old, after all, and even with the extended lifespan granted him by Wayzz, being ninety-something years old would make serving as a knight difficult at best.

“France will be done for at this rate,” the great guardian went on. “The duke of Orleans was captured years ago, and the dauphin has lost nearly all of the northern territory to the English. There's not even a king on the throne anymore.”

“The king died?” Tikki asked. Having been tucked away for so long, she couldn't bring herself to feel much sorrow for the unknown king's passing, but she _did_ feel for the country which was without a king, without military prowess, and now without hope. “Why hasn't the dauphin been crowned?”

“He can't make it to Rheims for that.” The great guardian's lips were drawn into a grim frown. “He's surrounded by the English on all sides. Not to mention that King Henry V took the throne from the last king before he died. His son is next in line for the French throne now. The dauphin doesn't have a single chance.”

Tikki frowned. The great guardian had always had a way of presenting the facts without bias, but he was painting a rather bleak picture. “You must think he has at least the slightest chance, though, or you would not have called on me.”

He looked towards the window. “It is a very, very slight chance. And it may come to nothing. Even I can't be sure. But there is a girl here in Domremy who may be able to help.”

“A village girl?” Tikki blinked in surprise. That wasn't what she had been expecting. Girls weren't knights. Neither were villagers, for that matter. Knighthood was something left to the aristocracy here in France; they were the only ones who could afford it. “Who?”

“The people here like to call her Jhennette.” For the first time in their conversation, the great guardian's face took on an expression that was at least somewhat akin to a smile. “She's a wonderful child. Very pious. She's scolded the churchwarden for not ringing Compline faithfully enough, can you believe? She doesn't take part much in singing or dancing or any of the other children's games, but they love her all the same. I think you'll like her too. She has a sort of solemnity about her. A conviction, if you will. And I believe she intends to do something about what has been happening.”

“But she's just a child,” Tikki protested. She may not know all the details of what was happening in the war at the moment, but she at least knew that it would mean certain death to throw a mere child into the midst of a battlefield.

The great guardian shook his head. “Joan is young, but she is not 'just a child.' You'll see, Tikki. Trust in me. She has more than merited your Miraculous. And in the midst of all this destruction, I believe what the dauphin will need, more than anything, is your powers of creation.”

Tikki nodded in understanding. If he saw something more in Joan than she could glean from his description, she would only learn the truth of the matter once she met her new master. Besides which, he had a point. The dauphin could use all the help he could get—even from a poor village girl who had probably never so much as seen a sword before. Tikki could guide her, help her learn what she would need to know to be of service. It might just be enough to keep Joan alive until her part in the war was over. “Take me to her.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at the ends of the chapters for fun facts about Joan!


	2. Joan

The wait was killing Tikki.

Well, all right, it wasn't _really_ killing her—she was an immortal kwami, incapable of being killed by the mere passage of time—but she felt like she might explode if she had to wait one more minute for Joan to find her jewelry box. She had been dropped off hours ago by the great guardian, but if Joan had arrived, she had yet to notice the box. And so Tikki waited.

She tried to pass the time as she had before being told of her new role as Joan's kwami, but making up her own version of what was happening outside her box wasn't nearly as interesting or enjoyable now that she knew she was to be thrown back into the fray of the war. She had thought it would be over by now. Sixty-two years had passed since her last release, she had discovered while conversing more with the great guardian, and she was hard-pressed to recall a single war she had lived through that had gone on for an even remotely similar amount of time. Wars were meant to last decades, not centuries. The people who had started the whole mess weren't even alive anymore.

What a world it would be, she thought, if people didn't go through so many wars. That was a more pleasant train of thought, and she set herself to imagining what things might have been like if wars were only started in the utmost necessity.

She was in the middle of reimagining the Peloponnesian War as a time of peace when there was a clacking sound outside her jewelry box. Tikki hopped to attention, practically vibrating with anticipation. Joan was getting close. She had to be. Any moment now, she would find the jewelry box, she would open it, and …

There was a long minute of silence, and then a quiet murmur as of somebody praying. Tikki slumped back down. Of course. The great guardian had said that Joan was pious. Of course she would do her evening prayers before opening the mysterious jewelry box on her bed.

Minutes dragged on like hours while Tikki waited for Joan to finish. She wondered how anyone, let alone a teenage girl, could manage to make their prayers last so long. It was a quality she would have to get used to, though. Joan was her new master, and that meant adjusting to all her mannerisms and habits, even the ones Tikki didn't personally understand.

Tikki was just beginning to wonder if she should resume reimagining the Peloponnesian War when there was a series of shifting noises. Joan must be sitting on the bed. Tikki jumped back up to attention a second time. This was it. Joan couldn't possibly ignore the jewelry box any longer.

“A jewelry box?” Joan's voice was thrown into sudden loud, sharp clarity, every word fully distinguishable. She must have picked up the box—finally! Her French was in a quaint, rural accent the likes of which Tikki wasn't entirely familiar with, but which was endearing anyway. “Mother must have—but she wouldn't. Who could have …”

_Please open the box, Joan, please please please please please …!_

“I'll have to ask her about it in the morning,” Joan's voice decided. There was a firm resolution in her tone, something stronger than what Tikki would have expected of a sixteen-year-old girl. Perhaps the great guardian had been right in his convictions that Joan could be a changing force in this war. If her tone was anything to go by, that is. “This box looks expensive, though. I wonder if …”

The lid of the box clicked open.

That was all the encouragement Tikki needed. In a burst of light, she was released from the Miraculous, and found herself face-to face with a wide-eyed, black-haired shepherd girl who looked as if she was seeing a ghost.

“Dear Lord in heaven keep me,” Joan whispered hoarsely, the horrified beginnings of a prayer for literally heaven knew what. Her hand fumbled behind her for the plain wooden crucifix hanging on the wall.

At least she wasn't screaming, Tikki supposed. She had to give her points for not screaming. Especially since most younger Miraculous wielders tended to scream when meeting their kwamis for the first time. But she wasn't exactly keen on the idea of being beaten around the head with a wooden crucifix, if that was what Joan was planning to attempt. She hurried to reassure her. Introductions be damned, her first concern was to make sure that panic was averted. “Don't be afraid, Joan. It's okay.”

Joan's face was starting to turn a slightly disturbing shade of white. “What are you?” The inevitable _And how do you know my name?_ hung in the air between them silently.

She really was handling this well, Tikki had to admit. “I'm a kwami. And I'm here to help you.”

“You're a daemon,” Joan translated. She began fumbling for the crucifix again. “Get away from me.” Her voice was frighteningly calm. The great guardian hadn't been kidding when he'd said she had a solemnity beyond her years. Tikki thought she might like Joan a great deal once they had overcome this hurdle of the daemon misunderstanding. She flew closer to Joan.

“I'm not a daemon,” she said. She pointed down at the earrings in the box Joan had opened. “I'm a kwami. I can give you powers of creation, using those earrings. There are big things in store for you, Joan. Very big things.”

Joan's expression took on a pinched look. “I already know that,” she replied.

Tikki blinked in surprise. Had the great guardian spoken to Joan? Had he told her that he thought she might be able to help the dauphin? How much did she know? “You do?”

Joan nodded.

“How?”

“Saint Michael told me,” she answered.

Oh, dear. Joan thought she could talk to angels. Tikki began to wonder if the great guardian might not have known as much about Joan's character as he thought he did. The girl might just be mad. “But isn't he … you know …” Tikki waved a hand vaguely. “… an angel?”

“You believe that to be improbable even though you yourself are a being of power?” Joan countered. Her hand had latched around the crucifix now, and she removed it from the wall and held it out in front of her in one fluid motion. “And I told you to get away from me. I want nothing to do with a daemon.”

“Joan, I'm not a daemon,” Tikki said, more insistent this time.

“Saint Michael,” Joan called. Her eyes flew upwards, to the ceiling, as if she expected the saint to come crashing through the rafters to save her. “Good Saint Michael, help me.”

“He doesn't need to help you.” Tikki decided that flying closer would probably only end in Joan hitting her with the crucifix, and sank down to sit on top of the opened jewelry box instead. “I'm not a danger to you, Joan. I'm here to help you.”

Joan's expression was resolute. “You're trying to offer me powers. Powers of creation. I might not have an education, but I've been taught enough to know that man taking on powers of creation would be blasphemy. And only a daemon would try to make me blaspheme.”

“It's not powers of creation the way you understand the phrase,” Tikki hastened to assure her. “You wouldn't be creating new life or anything like that. I just want to _help_ you. The one who brought me to you believes you may be able to aid your country.”

“I may,” Joan agreed, “but not with your help. I have my voice to help me.” She set down the crucifix, though, which was enough to encourage Tikki's spirits. The girl was being convinced. Slowly but surely, she was being convinced.

Then what Joan had said began to process. Tikki stared at her in late-registered surprise. “You know that you're meant to help France? Did the … angel … tell you that too?”

Finally, Joan seemed to relax fully. Crucifix forgotten, she folded her hands in her lap. Her face took on a radiant yet peaceful expression; if it had been possible to glow from the inside out with happiness, Joan would have been doing just that. “Yes,” she said. Then she amended, “Not in those words, not exactly. But he says I must go to Robert de Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs, who will provide people to go with me to France. And then I am to come to the aid of Orleans.”

Tikki felt like her eyes must be bugging out of her head. That was a far more specific course of action than what the great guardian had laid out, and far more dangerous than anything Tikki had planned for Joan to do. But if this was what Joan planned to do, it was good that the great guardian had sent Tikki to her. She could keep her new master safe, and teach her what she would need to know in order to fight. “Do you know how you're going to accomplish that?”

“Saint Michael has promised to send Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret to me,” Joan answered. “He has told me that they will lead me and advise me in what I must do.”

This was it. This was Tikki's opening. She had one thing on her side that no angel, imaginary or otherwise, could offer. “Let me protect you, then.”

The rapturous happiness on Joan's face vanished instantly. “I don't want the help of a daemon,” she said stiffly.

“You don't have to use my powers of creation if you don't want to,” Tikki rushed to assure her. They could resolve this daemon confusion later. Tikki had to convince Joan that she needed her—or at the very least, that she could help her. “But if you use my earrings, I can give you armor. Real armor. The full suit. Then you'll be safe at Orleans.”

Joan eyed her with suspicion. “You say that now, but you will try to force me to use it later.”

“I won't!” Tikki reached out to pat Joan's hand and comfort her, but Joan withdrew sharply. Tikki sat back. “I give you my word, I will never force you to use any of my powers you don't want to use. If you only ever use the earrings to provide yourself with armor, that's fine.”

Joan looked at the earrings, then back at Tikki, and then back at the earrings a second time. Then she took them from the box and pinned them to her belt.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked.

Tikki beamed in relief. “Tikki. I look forward to working with you, Joan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan started hearing St. Michael's voice and receiving visions when she was just twelve years old!


	3. To Vaucouleurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, I did try to use actual quotations from the historical records for Joan's conversations wherever possible. If you think she's talking really funny, that's probably because that's one of the direct quotes.

“Joan, are you sure about this?” Tikki whispered from her place in the pouch hanging from Joan's belt.

“This is the only way I will get to Vaucouleurs,” Joan whispered back, her lips barely moving.

“What did you say, Jhennette?” asked her uncle Durand.

Joan snapped to attention and clapped her pouch shut on Tikki's head. “Are we nearly there, Uncle?”

“We should be arriving within the hour,” he replied.

Tikki settled back into place inside the pouch, slumping down against the side. They had been walking for more than three hours already, by her reckoning. It was a long time to be trapped in a shepherd girl's belt pouch, but she reminded herself that she had endured far worse circumstances before. And Joan had at least done her the courtesy of hiding the sweetest food she could find in the pouch for her to munch on. That much was a blessing in and of itself.

Joan's uncle—her mother's sister's husband or something along those lines—had come to Domremy a few days ago to visit. He had come to Joan last night, asking her to go with him to his house to help his wife. She was expecting, and needed help, Durand said, with the housework and the delivery of her child. Joan, who had been antsy to get to Vaucouleurs ever since meeting Tikki, had jumped at the opportunity.

“Burey-le-Petit isn't far from Vaucouleurs,” she had explained excitedly to Tikki when she had asked her about it at bedtime. “Once I'm at my uncle's house, all I need to do is to convince him of my mission, and ask him to bring me to Vaucouleurs. Then I'll be able to meet with Robert de Baudricourt.”

Tikki hadn't questioned her at the time. It sounded like a decent enough plan. Not perfect, but good enough that it could plausibly work. But now, doubts were beginning to creep in. There was no guarantee that Joan would convince her uncle to take her to Vaucouleurs. If she mentioned the matter of Saint Michael's voice, he would surely decide she was mad. And even if she did convince him, there was still the matter of convincing Robert de Baudricourt, which to Tikki seemed as implausible as Joan sprouting wings.

She really had to wonder if she ought to be trying to talk Joan out of this. But apparently she was going to be confined to the pouch if she tried to talk while Durand was present. For the time being, she resigned herself to munching on the snacks Joan had provided her.

The rest of their trip to Burey-le-Petit was as tedious as the first portion had been. When they arrived at Durand's house, Joan was introduced to his wife (who was, coincidentally, also named Joan) and provided with dinner and a pallet to sleep on. She snuck a piece of fruit into her pouch for Tikki during her meal, and let her out at last when Durand and his wife had retired for the evening.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized as soon as Tikki came out. “If he had seen you, he would have thought the same as I did when I first saw you. I couldn't risk losing my chance to go to Vaucouleurs.”

“It's okay,” Tikki said. She sat down on top of Joan's bed pallet. “Even if he wouldn't have assumed I was a daemon, it's still better that he doesn't know about me. As a matter of fact, no one should know about me. No matter whether they agree with your mission or not, you can't tell anyone.”

Joan pursed her lips. “What about the dauphin?”

Tikki hesitated. Joan spoke often of the dauphin in relation to her mission, always with great affection. She was a patriotic girl, for sure. Refusing to let her tell the dauphin about her Miraculous might put Tikki on her bad side. On the other hand, it was of the utmost importance that Joan not breathe a word to anyone. She could not risk the Miraculous falling into the wrong hands. And there was no guarantee that Charles would be trustworthy. “We can decide on that once you've met him,” she decided. It was the most neutral answer she could give. “Once we know what he's like. All right?”

Joan nodded in understanding. And that, Tikki knew, was going to have to be answer enough.

~

“Uncle,” Joan said abruptly one night, after dinner. Her uncle froze on his way to the adjacent room. “May I speak with you?”

Tikki peeked through the narrow slit between the belt pouch she sat in and the flap that served as its cover. Joan had been staying with Durand for about a week now, and had performed her tasks around the house dutifully. All that was left was for her to travel to Vaucouleurs. Which meant that it was time for her to convince her uncle.

Durand moved to seat himself at the table, and gestured for Joan to do likewise. She sat obediently. Tikki's view of both Joan and her uncle was cut off by the edge of the table. Giving up any hope of gauging Durand's reaction, Tikki settled to the bottom of the pouch.

“Of course, child,” she heard Durand say.

Joan took a deep breath. “I want to go to France,” she said.

There was a pause, as if Durand were taken by surprise. “To France?” he echoed.

“I want to go to France,” Joan repeated, “to the dauphin, and I want to have him crowned.”

There was another long pause. Tikki wondered if Durand was considering Joan's request or just too shocked to say anything. It was hard to tell when she couldn't see what was going on.

“Jhennette,” Durand said, and his voice was shaking. “Jhennette, where is this coming from? Surely you don't expect—”

“Uncle,” she interrupted. She paused—scolding herself for interrupting him?—and continued in the firm tone Tikki was coming to recognize as the voice of a natural-born leader. A different sort of leader than her Miraculous holders in the past, but a leader nonetheless. “Has it not been said that France would be ruined by a woman and later restored by a virgin?”

“Well, yes,” Durand agreed slowly, “but Jhennette, how do you plan to go to France? I cannot take you so far, and a young woman such as yourself cannot be expected to travel alone.”

“I must go to Vaucouleurs,” she answered. “And when I am at Vaucouleurs, I will go to Robert de Baudricourt, and I will tell him to have me brought to the place where my lord the dauphin is.”

The pause was longer this time. Almost unbearably so. Tikki could tell what must be happening: Durand was weighing Joan's conviction and determination against all reason. Logic said that a sixteen-year-old girl, especially a shepherd girl who lived nowhere near the royal dominion and had no experience with weaponry or battles, would never be able to have the dauphin crowned, let alone restore France. There wasn't even a guarantee that the prophecy Joan spoke of was accurate. All that stood in favor of Joan's going was her own fierce devotion to her cause.

“Uncle,” Joan said in a very quiet voice, almost pleading, “please. I must. There is no one else who can do this.”

The wait for a response was torment. Tikki held her breath.

_Please, Durand Lassois, take your niece to Vaucouleurs._

“We leave first thing tomorrow morning,” Durand said.

Joan let out a breathless laugh of relief and stood from her seat to embrace her uncle. Tikki, still confined to Joan's belt pouch, was nearly smushed between the two of them.

“I'll tell my wife of our departure,” Durand said. “You'll want to eat before we leave.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Joan said. She released him from her embrace, and Tikki was able to peek out of the pouch once more. He was smiling at Joan, a hint of amusement in his eyes at her obvious excitement.

“You're welcome, child,” he said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek affectionately. “Now, then, to bed with you. We have a visit to Robert de Baudricourt to pay in the morning.”

Tikki could hear the smile in Joan's voice as she replied. “Of course.”

~

Vaucouleurs was much larger than Burey-le-Petit, that was for sure. Tikki was flattened as far back in Joan's belt pouch as she could fit, to avoid being jostled too much by passerby. Joan kept her hand over the pouch as well for added protection. The Miraculous had been unpinned from her belt and placed with Tikki in the pouch as a precaution against thieves.

Tikki wondered when Joan was going to get around to piercing her ears so that she could actually wear the Miraculous.

“We'll need to ask someone to take us to Robert de Baudricourt,” Durand said to Joan over the clatter of everyday life in Vaucouleurs as he passed his cloak for her to carry with her own. “I've never seen the man, so I will be no help in gaining an audience with him for you.”

“That's all right, Uncle,” Joan assured him. “I will know him when I see him. And I will not require an audience.”

“How will you know him?” Durand asked.

Joan didn't answer right away, and Tikki wondered if something had caught her attention. Her hand over the pouch fluttered. She murmured something, too soft to be audible.

“Jhennette?” Durand pressed.

“It's him,” Joan said in a peculiar, almost choked voice. “Robert de Baudricourt. Uncle, I must go to him.” She took off running—Tikki could tell by the way her hand clamped down over the pouch to keep it shut, and the heavy jostling that followed.

“Wait, Jhennette—Jhennette, slow down!”

Joan either didn't hear her uncle or elected to ignore him. Knowing her obedience to her family, Tikki was willing to bet it was the former. She came to an abrupt halt that sent Tikki flying against the side of the pouch only when she reached the target of her pursuit.

“Robert de Baudricourt,” Joan said. Whatever had come over her when she had first caught sight of him was now gone, and her strong confidence had taken its place.

A man's voice, which had been speaking to someone else in the vicinity when Joan had stopped in front of them, now paused. Tikki risked a peek through the slit of the pouch and saw a man not much taller than Joan, his hair cropped just above his ears and covered by an absurdly large black hat. He was burly, in the way that most soldiers were, but was dressed in the fine clothes befitting his rank as the garrison captain rather than his armor. This, then, was the face of Robert de Baudricourt. He was eyeing Joan as if she were a particularly obnoxious insect. If Joan was bothered by the look he was giving her, she gave no indication of it.

“And who might you be?” he inquired, sounding every bit as irritated with her as he looked.

Joan squared her shoulders and met his gaze without hesitation. “I am Joan la Pucelle,” she said. “I have come to you on the part of my Lord, in order that you may send word to the dauphin, to hold fast, and to not cease war against his enemies. Before mid-Lent the Lord will give him help.” She paused, and added, “In truth, the kingdom belongs not to the dauphin but to my Lord. But my Lord wills that the dauphin be made king, and have the kingdom in command. Notwithstanding his enemies, the dauphin will be made king, and it is I who will conduct him to the coronation.”

“But who is this Lord of which you speak?” Robert de Baudricourt inquired.

“The King of Heaven,” Joan answered, without batting an eyelash.

For a moment, deathly silence fell over the area. Robert de Baudricourt's eyebrows were raised disbelievingly. Then he laughed, loud and long, and the other men joined in.

“Jhennette,” Durand panted from behind, where Tikki couldn't see him. He must have finally caught up. “You cannot just run off like that.”

Joan turned her attention on him without looking away from Robert de Baudricourt. “My apologies,” she said. “But this is a very urgent matter.”

“This girl is with you?” Robert de Baudricourt asked Durand, jerking his chin in Joan's direction.

“My niece, sir,” Durand replied.

Robert de Baudricourt sized the two of them up, particularly Joan. She had to make a ridiculous spectacle, Tikki was forced to admit. A five foot two farm girl, strongly built from her work but dressed in the plain red woolens of a peasant, claiming she was to conduct the dauphin to his coronation—it was laughable at best. After a few moments' pause, he turned his eye on Durand. “Take her back to her father's house,” he said. “And be sure to give her a good slapping. 'La Pucelle' here needs to learn her place.”

Durand, to his credit, didn't grovel or whisk Joan away on the spot. He turned to his niece. “Jhennette?” Tikki heard him murmur to her. “What do you wish to do?”

Joan was silent, but Tikki could imagine the look on her face: a firm stare, dark eyes flashing—a warning to Robert de Baudricourt that she would not be stopped so easily. She handed Durand his cloak. “I wish to withdraw for the time, Uncle,” she answered in a voice like ice. “Let us return to Burey-le-Petit.” And she turned and walked away from Robert de Baudricourt without another word.

~

“La Pucelle?” Tikki asked that night as Joan prepared for bed.

Joan smiled at her. “France is to be saved by a virgin, Tikki. Aside from which, referring to myself as la Pucelle will ensure that no men in the army mistake my reason for being there.”

Tikki frowned in confusion. “But Joan, Robert de Baudricourt didn't listen. How are you planning to join the army now?”

“It's all right,” Joan assured her, settling herself on her pallet. “I was told he would not listen the first time I went to him.”

“You mean you plan to ask him again?” Was Joan planning to go to the man every day until he was annoyed enough to agree? Tikki couldn't imagine that ending well. Robert de Baudricourt seemed more likely to box Joan's ears himself than to agree if she persisted.

Joan began to unplait her hair. “Not right away,” she answered. “He needs more time. I intend to return home to Domremy, and I will remain there until my voices tell me to return to Vaucouleurs. He will agree the third time, when I provide him with a sign.”

“What sign?” Tikki asked.

She shrugged. “I do not know yet. But Saint Michael has promised me a sign.” She smiled again, and her face took on that radiant glow that always came when she talked about her saints. “You'll see, Tikki. I _will_ obtain the aid of Robert de Baudricourt.”

She set her belt pouch on its side next to her pallet, and Tikki nestled into the makeshift kwami-sized bed. This was becoming their routine; Joan would prepare for bed and set up her belt pouch for Tikki to sleep in, Tikki would curl up in the pouch at Joan's bedside, and she would fall asleep as Joan said her night prayer. Compline, Tikki had discovered, wasn't all that bad of a thing to fall asleep to. In fact, the quiet murmur of Joan's prayer was rather soothing.

Tikki yawned. “I hope you get your sign, Joan. But I will do my best to help you another way if it fails.”

Joan rubbed the top of Tikki's head, on the uppermost black spot, with one finger. For someone who had initially assumed Tikki was a daemon, she had become rather affectionate towards her over the last few weeks. “It will not fail,” she said with her usual certainty. “It is necessary that I go, and therefore it is impossible that my sign will fail. Trust in me. We will help the dauphin.”

Tikki managed a sleepy smile. “Of course, Joan.”

Her master shifted into the usual position she assumed for prayer, hands folded reverently. “Good night, Tikki. God keep you.”

“Good night, Joan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan called herself "la Pucelle" ALL THE TIME once she went to Vaucouleurs. If it weren't for her (spoiler alert lol) trial records, we likely wouldn't have any record of her last name actually being d'Arc--or, as it was spelled in medieval French, Darc.


	4. Back to Vaucouleurs

Joan didn't return to Vaucouleurs that month.

Or the month after that, or the month after that.

In June, news came that the earl of Salisbury had arrived in France and was making his way to Orleans. It was followed not long after, in July, by a Burgundian raid on Domremy. Joan and her family, along with the other villagers, fled to nearby Neufchateau. Tikki tried to ask Joan why she hadn't made any attempts to prevent Domremy from being raided, but her only answer was a vague “that is not for me to do.”

By the time the villagers of Domremy were able to return, Vaucouleurs had been besieged. Robert de Baudricourt, it turned out, had been forced to pledge neutrality in order to have the siege lifted. Domremy itself was a wreck. The fields had been destroyed, and several houses burnt to the ground.

What was hardest for Joan, however, was what had become of the church of St. Remy. Though the exterior had survived, the interior had burned almost beyond repair. Joan fell to her knees when she saw what had happened to the church, and she wept. Tikki popped her head out of Joan's pouch and, after checking that the coast was clear, emerged to comfort her master.

Joan barely spared a glance for Tikki. Her eyes were locked on the charred remains of the altar. “What have they done to Your house?” she whispered through her tears.

Tikki, feeling rather awkward and quite as if this was too intensely personal for her to be witnessing, drifted up to hug Joan's cheek. Tears wet the top of Tikki's head.

“Don't worry, Joan,” she murmured. “I'm sure they'll have it fixed soon enough.”

Joan wiped at her eyes and at the cheek Tikki wasn't hugging. “I weep for the destruction, but I weep more for the state of the souls of the men who did this to my Lord's house,” she said. She still hadn't taken her eyes off the altar. “They know not what they have done to themselves.”

And then Joan did something that Tikki hadn't expected. She went to kneel at one of the burned pews, and prayed. Not for the repair of the church, but for the very men who had destroyed it.

For the first time, Tikki felt she really, truly understood why the great guardian had chosen Joan to bear the Miraculous.

In October, Orleans was the next to be besieged, despite the fact that their hereditary lord was in captivity and the city was therefore entitled to neutrality. Joan didn't seem terribly surprised by the news. Still, she didn't return to Vaucouleurs. The royal court moved west from Bourges to Chinon soon after the siege of Orleans.

Tikki was beginning to wonder if Joan was ever going to go back to Vaucouleurs to hound Robert de Baudricourt again when, in January, Durand returned to Domremy. Joan greeted him at the door with a smile like the sun. He didn't tarry long this time. That evening at supper, he spoke to Joan's father about her visiting him and his wife in Burey-le-Petit again. She was needed, Durand explained, to alleviate his wife's suffering. What kind of suffering it was supposed to be, Tikki wasn't sure. Joan's father seemed to accept it as a reasonable cause at face value, and didn't ask for specifications. Permission was granted for Joan to leave the next morning.

Goodbyes were brief. All Joan said to her father, as she and Durand headed out, was “goodbye. I am going to Vaucouleurs.” He looked somewhat taken aback at that—there had been no mention of Vaucouleurs the night before, so Tikki couldn't really blame him. But he didn't stop her, or ask what she meant. He just bid her farewell and stood at the door until they turned a corner and were lost from sight. To other villagers along the way out of Domremy, Joan was even less chatty. The few people she did speak to were only told goodbye, nothing more. Tikki did hear murmurs as Joan passed, though, whispers, passed between those who looked on, that she was going to restore France and the royal family.

“I suppose you will wish to go directly to Vaucouleurs,” Durand said when they had left Domremy behind.

“I cannot impose on you and your wife a second time,” Joan replied. “I will stay in Vaucouleurs until I have gained Robert de Baudricourt's aid. You know someone there who will allow me to lodge with him.”

A long silence followed her statement, and Tikki wondered if Joan had presumed too much. She peeked out of the belt pouch to look at Durand's expression, hoping to gauge his reaction. He looked dumbfounded. Not in an _I don't know anyone there and have no idea what you're talking about_ sort of way, but an _I don't know how you knew that and I'm somewhat afraid to ask how you knew_ sort of way.

“I do,” he said finally, very slowly. “Henri le Royer. He can provide you with lodging while you wait for Robert de Baudricourt's aid.”

Tikki glanced up at Joan, and from where she was, she caught just a hint of the knowing smile she was giving her uncle. “God will thank him for it,” she said.

Durand hesitated, then tentatively said, “Jhennette, do you … do you truly believe Robert de Baudricourt will listen to you this time? I wouldn't want him to harm you because of your persistence, and he did tell me to give you a good slapping last time, if you'll recall.”

“He will not listen this time,” Joan answered. “He will not harm me, either. He is a stubborn man, Uncle, but he is not rash. You needn't worry.”

She turned out to be right, more or less. Robert de Baudricourt was no more inclined to listen to Joan this time than he had been the first time. Joan, to her credit, probably would have persuaded him to give in eventually if she hadn't played the prophecy card. But in the middle of their dialogue, she asked, “Have you not heard that it has been prophesied that France will be ruined by a woman and restored by a virgin from the borders of Lorraine?” and Robert de Baudricourt's expression went from disinterest to a scowl.

“Fables,” he snapped.

“You would call a prophecy of Saint Bede a fable?” Joan challenged. A hush fell over those who had stopped to listen to Joan and Robert's heated conversation. Tikki smiled to herself. _That was a good save, Joan_. Refusing to acknowledge a prophecy made by a saint in this day and age would make Robert de Baudricourt out to be at best negligent in his faith, and at worst a heretic.

He chose his next words carefully, almost meticulously. “What proof have you that you expect to fulfill Saint Bede's prophecy rather than the prophecy by Merlyn?”

The hush over the crowd grew, if possible, even quieter. Joan's answer rang out loud and clear. “I place no stock in the words of a man of whom we cannot even confirm the existence. I only trust in the prophecies which were made by those who served my Lord. And Saint Bede has said that France is to be restored by a virgin from Lorraine.”

“You presume privileges above your own station, girl,” Robert de Baudricourt said. “The daughter of a shepherd will not restore France, whether she is a virgin or not.” He made a shooing motion at her with his hand. “Back to your father's house with you. I've had enough of your silly games.”

Joan frowned, but she left obediently. Henri le Royer's wife, Catherine, greeted her at the door when she arrived back at their house.

“You have such tenacity, arguing with Lord Robert de Baudricourt like that,” Catherine remarked as she took Joan's cloak. “I've never met a young woman so bold.”

Tikki could practically hear the smile in Joan's voice when she replied, “Arguing? I had thought we were having a rather civil conversation until he sent me away.”

Catherine chuckled, but her next question was solemn. “Is it true, what you said? That France is to be saved by a virgin from Lorraine?”

“It will be, as soon as Robert de Baudricourt allows me to go to the aid of the dauphin,” Joan answered cheerfully. “But for the meantime, madame, might I do some small service for you?”

After much insistence from Catherine that Joan was a guest and shouldn't be doing the household chores, and equal insistence from Joan that she compensate for her imposition on the le Royers' home, Catherine finally gave in and fetched needle and thread, along with clothes needing to be darned. Joan thanked her with a smile, and went out in front of the house to work.

Tikki poked her head out of Joan's belt pouch, just enough to watch her sew. “You work too much,” she teased. “Catherine said you didn't have to do this.”

Joan glanced at Tikki, and her lips quirked up on one side in amusement. “And you're as bad as Madame le Royer, for discouraging me from it.”

She had been working for several minutes when footsteps approached from behind. Tikki's view from the top of the belt pouch swiveled as Joan turned to see who was approaching. It was a man, tall and well-built, dressed in the livery of a knight. His face was weathered in the way that all soldiers' faces seemed to be. Dark hair was cropped just above his ears in the military fashion. It was hard to decipher his expression—there was something almost hungry in his eyes. Avid curiosity, perhaps?

“Good morrow, Joan la Pucelle,” he said when he had come within earshot. “My name is Jean de Metz. I am a knight in service to my Lord Robert de Baudricourt.”

Joan had hardly glanced at the man—Jean—when she had turned at his approach, but now she looked up from her work to meet his eyes. Tikki sank down in the belt pouch to avoid being spotted. “Jean de Metz,” Joan repeated. “And why do you come to me, sir?”

Jean, for a moment, looked to be at a loss for what to say, but he collected himself admirably quickly. “My friend, what are you doing here? Will not the King be expelled from the kingdom and we become English?”

Joan scrutinized his face, as if searching for something there. Then, apparently satisfied with whatever she had found in him, she answered. “I have come to this royal town to speak to Robert de Baudricourt, to the end that he might bring me, or have me brought, to the King; but he pays no attention to me or my words. Nevertheless, before mid-Lent I must be before the King even if I must wear my feet down to the knees. For truly no one in the world, neither kings, nor dukes, nor the King of Scotland's daughter, nor anyone else can regain the kingdom of France; there is no aid except myself—although I would prefer to spin wool beside my mother, because this is not of my proper estate—but it is necessary that I go and do this, for my Lord wishes that I do it.”

Perhaps it was Tikki's imagination, but his voice seemed to soften as he asked, “And who, fair maid, is your Lord?”

“He is the Lord of Heaven,” Joan said in a tone that most girls her age would have reserved for speaking of the men they fancied. “My Lord is God.”

Jean took both Tikki and Joan by surprise then, by clasping Joan's hand in the fashion of a knight pledging fealty to their lord. Her needle and thread fell into her lap forgotten. “Joan la Pucelle,” he said solemnly. “I give you my word that with God as my aid, I will deliver you before the King.”

There was a pause. Joan seemed to have been rendered speechless. But Tikki saw her grip Jean's hands tightly, a silent acceptance of his promise. He smiled down at her, obviously pleased to be of help.

“Thank you, sir,” Joan said finally.

He released her hand. “There is no need for you to thank me. How soon do you wish to leave?”

“Rather now than tomorrow,” she answered, “and tomorrow rather than later.” She was almost squirming in her seat with excitement now; Tikki was jostled lightly by the belt purse as Joan shifted back and forth.

Jean de Metz looked Joan over. “Do you wish to go with your own clothes?”

Inwardly, Tikki cringed. She hadn't thought of that. All sorts of unsavory characters lurked around the roads, especially in disputed territory. For a young woman, the odds of making it on those roads with both her purse and her virtue intact were very slim. In order to get to the dauphin, Joan would have to cross straight through that territory, thereby putting herself in serious danger.

Joan, however, didn't seem to have nearly as many reservations about the matter as Tikki did. “I would be willing to go with male clothes, if I were in a position to obtain them.”

But didn't Joan's beloved Church excommunicate women who took up men's clothing?

Tikki would have to ask her about that later.

“It's settled, then,” Jean decided, propping his hands on his hips just above the belt that held his scabbard in place. “I have a servant whose clothing should fit you well. I will bring you clothes and boots of his, and I shall see about providing you a horse and whatever else you should require.”

Jean was as good as his word. Within the day, a set of men's clothing, complete with doublet, hosen, aiguillettes, and boots, had been delivered to the le Royers' home. Joan tried the clothes on that night, albeit with some difficulty figuring out how it was supposed to be put on.

“Won't you get in trouble with the Church for wearing this?” Tikki asked as Joan fumbled to tie the aiguilettes in place.

“The Church makes exceptions in cases of necessity,” Joan replied in a distracted half-mumble without taking her eyes off the task at hand. “Such a case as this is undoubtedly one of necessity. You don't need to worry, Tikki. My attire is a minimal matter when compared to my chastity.” And she left it at that.

Jean de Metz wasn't the only one to seek out la Pucelle, either. A summons was sent to her from the Duke of Lorraine, and the entire population of Vaucouleurs came together to provide her with men's clothes for the journey, along with a horse that Tikki was pretty sure had cost several francs. Word was spreading of the shepherd girl who wanted to save France.

Accompanied by Durand, Jean, and a safe-conduct from the duke himself, Joan obeyed her summons to Lorraine. Tikki had to smile to herself when the first words out of Joan's mouth after introducing herself were “I wish to go to France, my lord.” The duke smiled, too, and said that he knew. Though the duke's poor health didn't allow him to converse with her for more than an hour or so, he seemed quite fond of Joan.

The duke asked, towards the end of their conversation, if Joan's voices could tell her if he might recover his health. Joan's regretful reply was that she did not know. She did, however, tell him that he was sure to never recover his health if he didn't take back his wife and end his illicit affair at once.

“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but you have been behaving very sinfully,” she said.

He didn't seem insulted by her statement. Instead, he thanked her for her advice, and gifted her with four francs; “for your travels,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck.”

Joan bent to kiss his hand. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I shall pray for your good health.”

Robert de Baudricourt was no more charitable when Joan returned to Vaucouleurs than he had been when she had left for Lorraine. “You shouldn't have taken the trouble of returning here,” he said when he met her on her way through the city gates. “You may as well have gone straight back to your father's house.”

Rather than silently accept his harsh words, as she had done on the past two occasions, Joan gave him a stony, determined stare. “You still doubt,” she said. “So I will give you proof. On my word, this very day the Armagnacs have lost their fight against the English convoys to Orleans, and Sir John Stewart of Scotland is dead because of it. The next time we speak, the commanders will have told you of their defeat.” She said no more, and rode to the le Royers' house with no further stops. When Tikki asked her how she knew about the defeat of the Armagnacs, she was given a by-now familiar reply: “I was told of it by my voices.”

Sure enough, the next time Joan went before Robert de Baudricourt, he held a tattered letter in his hand, and was gaping at her as if he'd seen a ghost. “They lost,” he said hoarsely.

Joan bowed her head. “I had told you that it would be so, sir.”

Robert de Baudricourt cleared his throat, a slightly sheepish cast making its way onto his face. “You…you still wish to go to France, then?”

“More than ever, sir,” Joan replied. “I would leave this very minute were I given your escort.”

He hesitated, looking her over in her peasant's gown for a minute before shaking himself and instructing, “Stay here.” He vanished inside the doors of his estate.

“This is it, Tikki,” Joan whispered to her, lifting the top of the belt pouch just enough to smile at her kwami. “I will finally be able to go to France.”

Robert de Baudricourt emerged several minutes later, with a new sealed letter in hand and several armed soldiers and squires behind him. One of the men was Jean de Metz. “Your letter of recommendation to the dauphin,” Robert de Baudricourt said, holding up the letter. He gave it to Jean. “These men will safeguard it until you have need of it. They are all of my estate, and have sworn an oath to conduct you to the dauphin well and safely.”

Jean de Metz bowed to Joan. “I look forward to fulfilling my word which I gave you, la Pucelle, to bring you to France.”

“Go prepare to leave,” Robert de Baudricourt instructed her. “This very day you shall depart for Chinon, and bring aid to the dauphin and to France.”

If Tikki could have seen Joan's face at that very moment, she was sure it would have been positively radiant. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “And may God bless you for this.”

Joan returned to the le Royers' house and changed into her new male clothing in record time. At a hastily remembered word, Catherine gathered together the other clothes that had been purchased for Joan by the citizens of Vaucouleurs and packed them, loading the bag onto the back of Joan's horse's saddle for her.

“It's almost night,” Tikki pointed out as Joan finished tying the last of her aiguillettes and reached for her hat. “Is it really a good idea to travel by night?”

“We will have less of a chance of being stopped by enemy soldiers at night,” Joan reasoned. She stuffed her hat on over her hair, and inspected herself in the mirror. Tikki looked, too, from over her shoulder. The effect was that of an effeminate-looking young man, except for perhaps one tiny detail…

There was a knock at the door. “Joan la Pucelle,” Jean de Metz's voice said through the door, “may I enter?”

“You may,” Joan answered, frowning at her reflection and twisting the hat this way and that in an attempt to rectify whatever it was that seemed so peculiarly off about her otherwise male appearance. Tikki hid under the bottom of Joan's doublet hurriedly. She did so just in time; the door swung open only seconds later to admit Jean.

He looked her over, more practical than interested. “You make a convincing man in that attire, la Pucelle.” He came closer and reached out to pluck the hat from her head. “Do you wish to cut your hair?”

So _that_ was what was so off about Joan's appearance, Tikki realized. Joan still had the hairstyle of a peasant woman.

In the mirror, Tikki saw Joan yank her hair out of its high-pinned braid in a single fluid motion. The rich black tumbled down around her waist. “Yes. Please help me cut it off.”

Scissors were sent for immediately. Jean had her sit on the nearest chair, and she finger-combed her hair flat while they waited for the scissors to be brought.

Catherine came in a minute later, scissors in hand. “You sit,” she instructed Jean, pointing at him with the scissors. “I'll cut her hair. You may stay, but only so that I know how best to cut it.” Jean did as he was told. Catherine moved to stand behind Joan.

“Jhennette, are you sure about this?” she asked, taking a section of Joan's hair in her fingers. “You don't have to do this.”

“I'm sure,” Joan said without hesitation. “Cut it off.”

From where she hid under Joan's doublet, Tikki could only see the occasional glimpse in the mirror of how Catherine was cutting her hair. But she did see the long chunks of black hair that fell and scattered across the floor, and heard the snip of the scissors and the occasional input from Jean de Metz of “shorter” or “more around the ears, madame, not below.” Joan remained silent and almost entirely motionless through the entire process.

“There,” Catherine said finally, and Tikki peeked out at the mirror just in time to see her ruffling Joan's new haircut into place. It wasn't as short as Tikki had been expecting—it was cut in a sort of bob that just managed to cover the bottoms of her ears—but it was enough to complete Joan's disguise. “Even you might mistake her for a boy like this, Sir de Metz.”

“I might, at that,” Jean agreed.

Joan examined herself in the mirror, fingering a strand of her hair. “And now, I am truly wed to God,” she remarked with a slight smile.

The other knights and servants whom Robert de Baudricourt had instructed to accompany Joan were waiting at the gates of the city when she arrived on horseback with Jean de Metz in tow. Robert de Baudricourt himself was standing to one side of the gates. A large crowd of people had also gathered—here to see Joan off, no doubt—and their cheers were deafening.

“Good luck to you, la Pucelle!”

“Save us from those English mongrels!”

“Joan la Pucelle!” The voice was a woman's, and Joan wheeled her horse around to face its owner. Tikki peeked through the top of her belt pouch and saw a woman in the same sort of red peasant's wool Joan had been wearing not too long ago. “How will you manage, with all of the enemy soldiers along the way? Are you not afraid?”

“I am not afraid, madame,” Joan replied, and Tikki could hear her usual confident smile in her voice. “I am not afraid, because my way is unobstructed. If indeed there are soldiers along my path, my Lord and God will surely clear the way to the dauphin for me. I am not at all afraid,” she repeated. “For I was born to do this.”

“Joan, we must leave,” Jean called from the gateway.

“Of course,” Joan called back. She glanced at the woman for one lingering moment. “Take courage,” she urged. “France will soon be ours again.” Then she spurred her horse to join the men at the gates, which had already been opened.

“Go, Joan la Pucelle,” said Robert de Baudricourt. “Go to the dauphin, and do what you came here to do.”

Joan inclined her head towards him. “Thank you, sir. May God bless you, and the good people of your city.” And with that, she went through the gates.

Above all the clamor and cheering, the only words to ring out clearly were Robert de Baudricourt's, and they sent a chill down Tikki's spine: “Go, and let come what may!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: There were a TON of prophecies about a virgin from Lorraine saving France that were circulating in Joan's time. All of them were attributed to different sources. There's a Joan of Arc movie that uses the one from Merlyn, but the actual historical Joan didn't ascribe to that one. She stuck with Saint Bede's prophecy.


	5. Chinon

Joan's arrival in Chinon, only eleven days after she had set out from Vaucouleurs, was nothing short of a miracle. They had, for safety's sake, only traveled by night. Much to Joan's chagrin, this meant they hadn't been able to attend Mass more than twice during the whole trip. The late February weather was bitterly cold; Tikki offered Joan protection against the cold by invoking her Miraculous, which Joan refused.

“I will suffer along with my men,” she said stubbornly when Tikki tried to protest. And that was that.

Tikki had also worried that Joan, being so pure of heart, would be off her guard around the men while she was sleeping. But from the very first day, all the way up until their last time sleeping off the roads, Joan kept her doublet and hosen on rather than change into nightclothes, and kept them firmly tied at that. She would take no chances, she said to Tikki. In reality, though, she needn't have bothered. Tikki noticed that the men kept a reverent distance from her when they stopped to rest, and treated Joan as if she were one of their own ranks when they rode. Whatever their reasons—whether it was their oath to Robert de Baudricourt or their own personal belief in her mission or perhaps simply lack of interest—not a single untoward advance was made by any of them.

And somehow, one way or another, they managed to trudge the four hundred miles to Chinon in only eleven days.

Joan and the men arranged for lodging at a hostelry in Chinon as soon as they arrived. Though she was extremely antsy to get to the dauphin, Joan agreed to sup with the men at the hostelry. Letters had already been sent ahead to the castle informing Charles of Joan's visit and intentions, including that of Robert de Baudricourt, back when they had arrived in Ste-Catherine-de-Fierbois that morning to hear Mass. A response was expected any moment for Joan's summons.

They had just finished their supper when the woman who ran the hostelry came into their dining room and announced that two men had come, asking for Joan. Joan stood hastily.

“Send them in,” she requested.

The woman did as she was asked. Two men entered the room, dressed in the unmistakable livery of those directly under the dauphin. Their eyes skimmed the room, and locked eventually on Joan.

“Joan la Pucelle, I presume?” the taller of the two inquired.

Joan almost sank into a curtsy before she seemed to remember she was in men's clothes, and swept a bow instead. “I am she, sir.”

“We have received notice from the madame of this hostelry that you wish to appear before the King,” the man said. His nose was wrinkled slightly, as if in disgust—perhaps at Joan's attire, or her slight country accent. “However, the King is … unfamiliar with you and your purpose. It is the desire of his advisors that we inquire as to your identity and your mission in coming here before any decision regarding an audience with the King is made.”

There was a shuffle of discontent amongst the men who had brought Joan to Chinon. “They threw away the letters,” Tikki heard Jean de Metz grumble to Bertrand de Poulengy, a fellow knight who was just as strong a believer in Joan's mission as him. “I would wager money on it.”

If Joan heard Jean's mutterings, she didn't comment on it. Instead, she kept her focus firmly on the two men in front of her. “I have mandates,” she said, “two of them, from the King of Heaven himself. The first is that I should raise the siege at Orleans, and the second, that I must conduct the dauphin to Rheims for his coronation. I will say no more unless it is before the dauphin himself, whom I must see with all swiftness.”

“We will deliver whatever message you have in its entirety to the King,” the shorter man promised.

“I will say no more unless I say it to the dauphin himself,” Joan repeated in the stubborn tone Tikki was beginning to know so well. “What I have told you already will be sufficient for his council.”

“It would be better for you if you conveyed your message now, to us,” the taller man warned.

“It would be better for you if you did not ask to know things that are meant for the dauphin's ears alone,” Joan countered lightly. “You have my message. I will not speak of these matters in their entirety until I obtain my audience with the dauphin.”

Try as they might to get more out of her, Joan would not be swayed. The men left a half hour after they had come, with no more to tell the dauphin's council than she had said to them at the beginning. There was nothing left for Joan and the men to do now except to wait.

Joan spent most of the next day pacing the floor. No reply was sent from the dauphin's council. Tikki teased that she was going to wear a hole in the floor if she kept walking back and forth like that all day, which earned her a slight though jaded smile from her charge. (She thought of Joan as her charge rather than her master now—Joan rarely commanded her to do anything, except to wait outside on occasions when she went into the confessional, and she had begun to feel to Tikki more like someone whose care she had been assigned than like someone whose orders she was mandated to follow.) Joan replied in jest that Tikki would pace, too, if she had been forced to wait like this for something so important. Tikki smiled to herself. Jhennette had no idea.

Late in the evening, clergymen came to visit, stating that they had been sent to examine Joan before the council decided whether she was to see Charles or not. Joan answered all of their questions without hesitation, and they seemed quite impressed with her by the time they departed. On the second day, after another morning which Joan spent pacing the floor of her room, a nobleman of the dauphin's court came to announce that he would escort her into the dauphin's presence the very next day. Joan twirled around the room as she prepared for bed that night.

“Tomorrow, Tikki,” she sighed blissfully. “It all seemed to be taking so long, and now all at once, everything is happening. I, to be before the dauphin tomorrow evening! I had no doubt it would be so, and yet here I am, as excited as if I had had no idea.”

“Your voices?” Tikki guessed as Joan knelt in preparation for Compline.

She smoothed a stray hair away from her face—she had taken to doing that since cutting her hair short, Tikki had noticed. It was really quite endearing. She flashed a smile Tikki's way. “Of course. Oh!” She started, like she had suddenly remembered something, and shifted to sit cross-legged on the floor facing Tikki. “You mustn't tell me where the dauphin is tomorrow. I will know.”

Tikki was baffled. The dauphin would be seated on the throne in the audience chamber. Anyone could easily pick him out. Why did Joan feel the need to tell her not to say anything about where the dauphin was? “You needn't worry about that, Joan. I wasn't planning to say anything in any case.”

Joan's eyes danced with amusement. “Even though the dauphin will not be seated on his throne tomorrow?” At Tikki's confused look, she elaborated. “Saint Michael has told me that the dauphin will be amidst the audience when I go to see him, as a test. But I will know him, by Saint Michael's aid. No matter what I do tomorrow evening, Tikki, no matter how confused I may appear, you must not attempt to tell me where the dauphin is. I wish to accomplish this by the aid of my voices alone. Will you give me your word?”

She looked so serious that even had Tikki wanted to refuse, she wouldn't have had the heart to say no.

Much to the disappointment of Jean de Metz, Bertrand de Poulengy, and the other men who had escorted Joan to Chinon, they were not permitted to accompany her to her audience with the dauphin. Only the nobleman who had told her of her scheduled audience, Count Louis de Vendome, escorted her. The torches were being lit at the castle when they arrived—it was, after all, still March, and darkness fell swiftly after suppertime. The guards at the entryway looked at Joan dubiously, but let her pass when they saw the count accompanying her.

Tikki peeked out from under the edge of Joan's doublet as they went inside. The courtyard of the Fort Saint-Georges was already dimly lit, and she could hear the babbling of conversation from the audience hall in the Chateau du Milieu. It had to be very crowded. Despite her promise not to help Joan find the dauphin in the crowd, she found herself wondering how on earth Joan was planning to accomplish it with so many people to sift through.

Joan barely said a word to Count Louis de Vendome until they arrived at the doors of the audience chamber. Then, just as he was about to take her in, she said, “Thank you, sir, for your kind service. You have brought me to the place where I have most wanted to be for many seasons.”

The count looked a little taken aback at that, as if he wasn't sure what to make of Joan. “There is no need to thank me,” he said. “Save your gratitude for after you gain the approval of the King. _If_ you obtain it, that is.”

“I will,” Joan said with the utmost certainty.

He raised his eyebrows, but only said, “May it be so, child,” and pushed open the door.

The hall was even more crowded than Tikki had been expecting. There were easily more than three hundred men-at-arms alone, ignoring all of the dauphin's other supporters. Everything was a dazzling, disorienting display of finery, gold, weapons, and armor that glimmered under the torchlight.

“A visitor, to see His Majesty the King,” Count Louis announced. Suddenly, more than three hundred pairs of eyes were trained on Joan.

She stepped into the room without any hesitation whatsoever, and murmurs followed her. It was as if she was as at home here among nobility as she would have been in her parents' garden. As she walked, her head swiveled in search of the dauphin—true to her prediction, the throne at the head of the chamber was empty.

Then Tikki spotted him, on the edge of the crowd, off to one side. It had to be him. He was watching Joan with a curious yet guarded expression, and seemed to be trying to shrink amidst the people to either side of him. She tugged the hem of Joan's doublet, lightly, just enough to catch her attention without drawing the notice of everyone else in the room.

“Joan,” she hissed, “the dauphin.”

“Silence, Tikki,” Joan whispered, so quiet it would have been inaudible to anyone more than a few centimeters away. Her lips didn't move at all. “Your word.”

The dauphin was on the move, slipping behind a pair of men at arms. Tikki tugged at Joan's doublet again, twice this time. “ _Joan._ ”

Joan clamped her hand down over Tikki. “ _Quiet._ ”

Between Joan's fingers, Tikki saw the dauphin slide out of view. She sighed. It would take Joan forever now to locate him in this crowd.

Abruptly, without any warning, Joan switched direction, and her pace increased. The crowd parted to let her through. Tikki wondered if she thought she had found the dauphin. She was going in the wrong direction. The murmurs around them increased.

Then Joan came to a halt. The last of the crowd parted around her. Tikki flew closer to Joan's fingers to get a better look and saw, impossibly, the dauphin standing before her. He must have been sneaking around the perimeter of the room to try to avoid detection. He looked just as surprised as Tikki was, and a little guilty about being caught. Complete silence fell over the hall.

Joan dropped to her knees and bowed her head to him. “Noble Lord Dauphin, I have come and am sent in the name of God, to bring aid to yourself and to the kingdom.” She kept her head bowed as she waited for his response.

For a long minute, Charles didn't seem to know what to say. He just stared down at Joan with an expression of utter awe, his mouth moving wordlessly.

“What is your name, child?” he finally asked. Tikki had to stifle a laugh. The dauphin himself looked as if he was barely any older than Joan, perhaps in his early twenties at the oldest. She supposed he was probably trying to maintain an air of authority after having been caught slinking around the hall like a guilty thief.

Joan didn't seem to find his manner of address as amusing as Tikki did. She bowed her head further. “Noble dauphin, I am called Joan la Pucelle, and the King of Heaven sends word to you through me, that you will be anointed and crowed in the town of Rheims, and you will be the lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is King of France.”

The hall was so quiet now that the drop of a pin would have been audible. The dauphin looked like if he tried to say anything, he would end up sputtering instead. Tikki couldn't entirely blame him. It wasn't every day, after all, that you were told by a shepherd girl in men's clothes that God wanted you to become the ruler of France.

“Come with me,” he managed to croak.

Joan got to her feet and followed Charles out of the audience chamber, into a smaller adjacent room. He closed the door on the whispers that were beginning to bubble up. Then he turned to face Joan. It was hard to tell for sure in the torchlight, but his ruddy complexion seemed to Tikki as if it had gone somewhat pale.

“You're the one, then?” Charles asked Joan. He stepped closer. “The one in the prophecy of Saint Bede who is to liberate France?”

She ducked her head in yet another bow. “I am she, noble dauphin. I wish to make war on the English.”

Charles swiveled, and began to pace. It seemed that the more Joan told him, the more agitated he became.

“You're from Lorraine?” he pressed. He was still pacing.

“Domremy, my lord dauphin,” she returned. “Near the borders of Lorraine.”

“And how do you plan to bring aid to France?”

“Through God's help, I will bring you victory against the English,” Joan promised.

Charles continued pressing her for details—what sort of help from God, how she was to bring victory, why she had not come forth sooner, how she knew she was truly speaking to God, and more. Joan answered everything calmly and without hiding anything.

Anything, that is, except for her possession of the Miraculous.

Tikki breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Charles' questions came to an end without a single risk of the Miraculous being revealed. There was, of course, always a chance that he might find out in the future, but they had at least avoided the matter for the time being.

The room was silent for a long time. Tikki wondered why they hadn't gone back into the larger audience chamber yet. There seemed to be nothing more to discuss. Then Charles cleared his throat.

“I hope you will not think too unkindly of me if I should ask you for true proof of your being sent to me by God,” he said.

Oh no. Inwardly, Tikki cringed. Joan had spoken often about her voices, and had told Charles about them without hesitation, but it had occurred to Tikki that there was no real way to be certain that those voices were from God and not in Joan's head. Certainly, Joan had already accomplished the impossible in her prediction of the Armagnac's defeat and her almost unbelievably smooth journey to Chinon, but that didn't necessarily mean she was sent by God. How on earth was Joan going to get out of this one?

Joan, for the first time, hesitated a moment before speaking. When she did, her voice was soft and reassuring. “I tell you in the name of my Lord that you are the true heir of France, and the son of the previous king, and He has sent me to you in order to lead you to Rheims, in order that you should there receive your coronation and consecration, if you wish.”

To Tikki, it seemed a paltry answer, but Charles inhaled sharply. She peeked out just a little further from under Joan's doublet, just enough to see his face again. He looked stupefied and yet delighted.

“You _are_ from God,” he said, and then turned and practically flung open the doors of the room.

“This girl has told me certain secrets which only God could know,” he announced to the men-at-arms and nobles waiting in the audience chamber. “And because of this, I have great confidence in her and in her mission, and that she is truly the woman who has been prophesied to restore France.”

Tikki still wasn't sure what about Joan's answer had been so compelling to the young dauphin, but she supposed that didn't matter. Her charge had already, God or no God, become the savior of France.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The sign from God that Tikki didn't pick up on was that Joan gave Charles an answer to a prayer which he had made in private the previous November. He had asked God to indicate whether he was the rightful heir to the throne, since his mother had disowned him saying he was illegitimate. Joan's assurance that he was the rightful heir and the son of the previous king was all the convincing Charles really needed.


	6. Preparing for Battle

It turned out that, even with Charles' personal conviction that Joan had been sent from God, she still had to submit to questioning by church authorities. She was first questioned in Chinon, where Charles had quarters set up for her in the castle's Tour de Couldray. Then, in early March, she was sent to Poitiers some thirty miles south.

The array of clergymen in Poitiers was even more impressive than those who had been present in Chinon. Tikki heard in passing while they were traveling there that the church officials had fled to the city from Paris after the latter had become pro-English. At the very least, though, they deigned to question Joan in the lodgings she was provided in Poitiers, rather than forcing her to go elsewhere. They introduced themselves to Joan, but Tikki gave up keeping track of their names after the archbishop. There were too many of them to keep straight.

Once introductions had been made, the clergymen began their questions straightaway. “Why have you come?” one of them asked. Tikki thought he might have introduced himself as one of the lesser dignitaries, but she wasn't sure. Either way, the question seemed absurd when they had surely been informed ahead of time exactly why Joan had come to them. “Our King greatly wishes to know what inspired you to come before him.”

 _She already told Charles about all that_ , Tikki wanted to say—this was the third time Joan had been questioned, after all, and it was starting to get obnoxiously repetitive—but she held her tongue. No one could know about Joan's Miraculous, least of all the clergymen. Joan would be killed as a heretic on the spot if she were found out.

Joan didn't seem either fazed or bothered, though. “While I was watching my father's animals, a certain voice manifested itself to me, and it told me that God has great compassion for the people of France, and that it was necessary that I come here to France.”

Another of the clergymen spoke up. “You have said that the voice told you that God wishes to liberate the people of France from the calamity which it is in. If He wishes to deliver it, there's no need to have soldiers.”

“In God's name,” Joan said, “the soldiers will fight and God will grant victory.”

“What dialect do these voices of yours speak?” asked a friar. Tikki had to stifle a giggle; the man spoke in a strong Limousin dialect that was very at odds with his professional demeanor.

She could almost hear the smile in Joan's voice as she jokingly replied, “It is a better dialect than you speak, sir.”

The comment earned a few suppressed chuckles from the others present. The friar, however, forged on. “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, sir,” Joan said, “better than you.”

“God would not wish for us to believe in you if nothing else appears to make it seem that you are credible. We would not advise the King, based solely on your simple assertion, to give you soldiers and place them in danger, if you have nothing else to say.”

The light humor that had been in Joan's voice disappeared instantly. “In God's name, I did not come to Poitiers to produce signs; but send me to Orleans; I will show you the signs for which I was sent. Give me men in whatever numbers you should see fit, and I will go to Orleans.”

That seemed to shut the friar up.

The questioning continued for the rest of the week, though, and for the week after that. Joan became rather antsy, asking Tikki repeatedly if she thought they would give her men to fight at Orleans soon.

“I do not have much time,” she said one night, “only a year and a little more. I wish they would finish with all these examinations so that I was not impeded so long from my mission.”

Tikki didn't dare ask why Joan thought she didn't have much time. She drifted to Joan's hand and gave her a reassuring pat. “I'm sure they won't be much longer in deciding. They can't possibly find anything wrong with all that you're telling them.”

Joan covered Tikki's little hand with her fingers. “Thank you, Tikki.”

After nearly three weeks, Joan was informed that she had visitors—and not just the clergymen she had been up against for all her examinations. She practically leapt from her room to meet them. When she arrived, three men were waiting for her. Two of them Tikki recognized as professors of theology who had been part of the group of examiners. The third was unfamiliar but decidedly not clergy.

Joan went straight to the unfamiliar man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Gobert Thibault. It is good that you have come,” she said happily. “I would very much like to have more men of goodwill such as yourself.”

“Joan la Pucelle,” one of the professors said, and Joan turned towards him, “we have been sent to you by His Majesty the King.”

“I well believe that you were sent to question me,” Joan replied dismissively. “But I do not know either A nor B.”

Hiding in Joan's belt pouch (Joan had taken to wearing women's clothing once more now that she had been provided secure lodging and wasn't camping outside with her party), Tikki saw the professor's brow furrow. The other professor stepped in.

“Joan la Pucelle,” he said, “why have you come?”

Joan let out a quiet breath of discontentment; Tikki doubted anyone but herself noticed it. She knew why, though. Her reason for coming had been stated so many times at this point that it would have been a hundredfold miracle if Joan hadn't gotten sick of it. “I have come in the name of the King of Heaven,” she answered, “to raise the siege of Orleans, and to bring the dauphin to Rheims for his coronation and anointing.”

Something rustled; Joan's attention was immediately captured. “You have paper and ink?” she asked.

Thibault shifted uncomfortably but produced ink and paper from the satchel at his side. “Yes, Miss.”

Joan took them from him and held them out to the theologian who had asked why she had come. “Master Erault, please write what I tell you.”

The man looked somewhat taken aback, but sat at the table to take her dictation.

“Please write 'Jesus, Maria' at the top,” Joan requested. When this had been done, she took a deep breath and began. “King of England, and you, Duke of Bedford, who call yourself Regent of France; you, William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk; John, Lord of Talbot; and you, Thomas, Lord Scales, who call yourselves Bedford's lieutenants, do right by the King of Heaven. Hand over to the king the keys to all the towns which you have taken and violated in France.

“I have come here in the name of God to support the Royal family. I am quite prepared to make peace, if you are willing to do right, so long as you give up France and make amends for occupying it. And you, archers, soldiers both nobles and otherwise, who are around the town of Orleans, in God's name go back to your own lands. And if you will not do so, await word of me, la Pucelle, who will go to see you soon to your very great misfortune. King of England, if you do not do so, wherever I come across your troops in France, I shall make them go, whether willingly or unwillingly; and if they will not obey, I will have them wiped out. I am sent here by God the King of Heaven to drive you entirely out of France. And if they are willing to obey, I shall have mercy on them. And do not think otherwise, for you will never hold the kingdom of France from God the King of Heaven, the Son of Saint Mary; King Charles, the true heir, will hold it, for God the King of Heaven wills it; and this has been revealed by me to him, who shall enter Paris with a fine contingent of troops.

“If you do not believe the tidings sent by God, wherever we find you we will strike against you, and will cause such a great clash of arms there that not for a thousand years has France seen one as great, if you do not do right. And firmly believe that the King of Heaven will send greater force than you would be able to bring against me and my good men-at-arms in all of your assaults. And in the fighting we shall see who has the better right, whether God of Heaven or you. Duke of Bedford, I ask and request that you will not cause your own downfall. If you will do right, you could yet come in my company to where the French will do the noblest deed which has ever been done for Christianity. And reply if you wish to make peace in the city of Orleans; and if you do not do so, you will shortly contemplate your great misfortunes.”

She stopped speaking, and the theologian looked up at her questioningly. “That is all,” she said.

The theologian marked something—presumably the date—on the paper. “Such a letter will require a signature.”

“I will sign it when I am able to go to Orleans,” she said, “and not a minute sooner.”

Two more days of questioning followed after Joan dictated her letter. Then, to her great joy, news came that she had been approved, and was to be allowed to take a company of soldiers to Orleans.

But first, she was informed, she would have to go to Tours for men and arms.

“Why do you need arms?” Tikki asked while Joan packed her things that night. “You can use the Miraculous to get your armor, and any weapons you may need.”

“I will use your armor,” Joan agreed. “But did you not tell me that the Miraculous was to remain a secret? I cannot keep it so unless I accept the armor given me by the good people of Tours. And besides,” she added, “there is a sword which I already have in mind for my use. I appreciate the help you are giving me, Tikki, but even if you ask, my mind has been made up. I will use no other sword.”

“What sword is that?” Tikki asked, confused.

Joan smiled. “You will find out soon enough.”

Naturally, Tours was in the direction they had just come from to get to Poitiers, and almost twice as far away as Chinon at that. Joan donned her male clothing again for the journey. Though Jean de Metz and the other men remarked that it was silly to be sending Joan all around the country like this, she herself didn't complain at all. Upon their arrival in Tours, a man named Hauves Poulnoir visited Joan's provided lodgings to receive instructions for her pennons and standard.

“You have been named commander of the dauphin's army,” he said when Joan asked what sort of things were meant to go on the standard. “Whatsoever you wish to represent you and your army, that is what should be on your standard.” Joan brightened at that, and ended up giving him rather detailed instructions. Poulnoir noted down everything that she said, promising that she would leave Tours with the finest standard in all of France.

An armorer named Colin de Montbazon also paid her a visit, to take her measurements for the suit of armor she was to wear into battle. Tikki had to hide _very_ carefully during that visit.

Those fitting Joan with her battle gear were not the only ones to visit. A hermit from the Order of Saint Augustine came as well, some days later. He was escorted by some of the men who had been with Joan since Vaucouleurs.

“Joan,” said one of the squires, “we brought you this good Father; if you knew him well you would hold him in great esteem.” The hermit, whom Tikki gathered was a priest, was introduced as Father Jean Pasquerel.

“I am indeed well pleased with him,” Joan said. “I have already heard people speak of you, Father. All of their accounts have been nothing but praise. If it pleases you, I should wish to confess to you on the morrow.”

“Of course, child,” Friar Pasquerel promised. “And perhaps you would like to attend Holy Mass as well?”

“Nothing would gladden me more.” She knelt and kissed the hem of the priest's robes. “I shall eagerly await our meeting again.”

Needless to say, Tikki was relegated to the belt pouch for the duration of Joan's confession, although Joan let her poke her head out to listen to the Mass, which Friar Pasquerel personally sang for Joan.

Two other visitors were much closer to home for Joan. Not long after Friar Pasquerel's visit, her older brothers Jean and Pierre arrived. Tikki was rather uncomfortably squashed for several minutes while Joan embraced them.

“We have come to help your cause, good sister,” Pierre said. “We shall fight with you at Orleans.”

“The better for me, and the better for France,” Joan replied happily. Even though Tikki couldn't see her face, since she was smushed at the bottom of Joan's belt pouch, she could envision the expression that must have been there: a smile bright as the day, those brown eyes lit to joyful amber fire. And oh, what a child's smile it was. For the first time in a long time, Tikki's heart sank at the thought that this now seventeen-year-old girl was to be thrown in the midst of a bloody, barbarous war that she didn't deserve to be in. Joan was so enthusiastic, so gladdened by her mission that it was easy sometimes to forget how young she really was, and how much better she deserved.

Joan's armor and banners were completed shortly after, and delivered to the home of Jean Dupuy where she was staying. The armor was full plate armor, without any chainmail. It shimmered almost white under the sunlight when Jean de Metz and the other men helped her to put it on for the first time. Tikki had to admit that it made a beautiful sight, and she almost felt bad for needing to have Joan transform in the future. Such fine armor had to have been costly.

A sword also arrived for Joan, sent by the clergy of Ste-Catherine-de-Fierbois and brought to her by the armorer who had made her suit of armor.

“It was found behind the altar just as you said it would be,” he told her as he offered her the sword. “The clergymen said that the rust fell from the blade without any effort at all, like a miracle from God.”

“The sword of Saint Catherine,” Joan said with a broad smile, holding the sword up before her face. Five crosses decorated the blade, one after another in a line from top to bottom. “It is every bit as beautiful as my voices described.” She tucked it in the sheath the armorer had brought with it. “Still, I will prefer the use of my banner, which cannot harm anyone.”

Soldiers came together in the city, both those who had accompanied her from Vaucouleurs and those who had rallied here for Orleans. A bodyguard for Joan was sent by Charles, a young man (younger even than Joan) by the name of Jean d'Aulon, along with several other soldiers assigned to her protection.

It was around this time that Joan finally agreed to Tikki's request that she pierce her ears.

She asked Jean de Metz to help her, and he consented readily. They sat in the dining hall of Jean Dupuy's home, with a candle and needle at hand and the Miraculous beside them.

Jean waited as Joan wrestled her short hair back out of the way, and inspected the Miraculous while he waited. “Might I ask where you obtained such fine jewelry, Joan? I very much doubt that you brought such a thing from home.”

Inside Joan's belt purse, Tikki tensed.

“A gift,” came Joan's answer. “From an unknown benefactor. They were left with my possessions some time ago, with no indication of whom they came from.”

Jean seemed satisfied with her reply, and Tikki relaxed. That was one nightmare avoided. The rest of the ear piercing proceeded without incident, though Joan hissed some at the stabbing of the needle. Once Jean had departed for the evening, Tikki gave Joan instructions: how to cue her transformation, how to use her Lucky Charm, how long the transformation would last afterwards, how to drop the transformation if she didn't use it.

“I appreciate your telling me all of this information,” Joan said, “but you needn't worry about the Lucky Charm. You promised I would not need to use your powers beyond the transformation if I did not want it, and I intend to hold you to that promise.” When Tikki tried to protest, Joan put a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence. “I have Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret at my side to guide me, and the good Lord Himself to watch over me. I will achieve what I am meant to do even without the Lucky Charm. Have faith, Tikki. God will grant us the victory.”

They departed on their route to Orleans the next day, Joan cloaked in Tikki's armor for the first time and her standard of “Jesus, Maria” waving proudly above her troops.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan used her banner in battle more than she used her sword. At her trial, she stated that she had never killed anyone, and that she loved her banner many times more than she loved her sword.


	7. At Orleans

Their first stop was in the city of Blois, where Joan met the rest of her troops. Provisions for Orleans were already being gathered into boats upon her arrival, much to her satisfaction. The commanders met with her shortly after she was settled in her encampment. There were quite a few of them, some whose names Joan was familiar with and others she had not apparently heard of before. Father Pasquerel accompanied her to her meeting with them.

“Keep in mind, la Pucelle, that you may have been given command of the army, but only titular command,” one of the commanders, a lord named Louis de Culan, warned her. “We are the ones who will be making all of the decisions in our battle with the godons.” (Godon, Tikki had gathered, was a rather derogatory name the army had taken to using for the English. Joan had already used the word on occasion herself.) “Overstepping your bounds will not be looked upon kindly.”

“I have no intention to do so unless it be by the will of God,” Joan promised. “For His will is much higher than yours, Lord de Culan.” She leaned forward intently. “Tell me of my men. My voices have given me much cause for distress, because they have told me that there are great vices here.”

“It is standard fare for an army, little maid,” said another commander, this one not-so-affectionately referred to as La Hire (Tikki was beginning to see why, as the man had yet to stop scowling). “Gambling, drinking, the lot. And by my staff, you will not be able to stamp that out. The men will have their pleasures.”

La Hire, Tikki thought, had _no_ idea what sort of impassioned determination he had just unleashed in Joan.

Joan whirled on La Hire. “You say I have no right to give military commands,” she said, her voice taking on that stubborn tone that left no room for argument. “Very well. But I am here by the will of the dauphin and the will of God Himself, and I have the right to give my commanders instruction for their own good. You will all”—she pointed around to every one of the commanders—“give up your swearing, and attend Mass and confess your sins with the rest of our troops.” She locked her eyes on La Hire again. “Such sinfulness is the very reason why God has been permitting the English to win. And I will have none of it in my army.”

She spoke before her troops that night, and conveyed much the same message to them, although in far more detail. Her primary targets, though, were the prostitutes and mistresses of the soldiers who had settled in the encampment. “Those of you who are their mistresses, you must either marry your lover or leave the camp at once,” she instructed. “As for you camp followers,” (referring to the prostitutes,) “I will give you one day to leave or you will face the consequences personally at my hand.” She went on to require that they all attend Mass and confession, and prohibited any looting of civilian property that they might have opportunity for during their battles. A surprisingly large number of them obeyed. Even most of the prostitutes and mistresses left.

Most.

Joan found one prostitute in the camp the next night, after their grace period had ended. Without any scolding or words of disappointment, she drew her sword on the girl and shooed her out of the camp at swordpoint. “Go back to your father's house,” she said, not unkindly, when the fear-stricken girl had been ushered out to the roads. “This place is not where you belong.”

Tikki wasn't sure if the girl obeyed Joan's words or not, but she didn't show up in the camp again.

Joan herself made it very clear to her men that she was not there to be their new plaything. Always, always, even when sleeping, she wore her armor to protect her chastity. Tikki warned her that sleeping in heavy plate armor was going to leave bruises; Joan replied that she would rather have bruises than lose her virtue.

She really needn't have bothered, Tikki thought. While waiting outside Friar Pasquerel's makeshift confessional for Joan, she overheard soldiers commenting more than once that despite Joan's shapeliness, they didn't find themselves inclined to lust after her whatsoever. One soldier even remarked that it was almost miraculous. His companion went so far as to say that he didn't have the will to sin when she was around. Tikki smiled to herself at that. _Joan would have liked to hear that._

Her commanders obeyed her orders to go to confession as well. Even La Hire, who had seemed during that first meeting to be the most opposed to what Joan was requiring of her men, went to one of the army's priests for confession.

A banner was also made for gathering the priests, at Joan's request, with a depiction of Jesus crucified. Joan had them assemble twice a day for hymns and prayers. Those soldiers who had confessed were invited to join them. Joan herself was there for each gathering. She liked to meet with the priests and friars often, particularly those of the mendicant orders like Friar Pasquerel. When she wasn't with her commanders, she was with the friars.

It was there at Blois that Joan took out the letter which she had dictated in Poitiers, and requested that one of her commanders help her to sign it. “Being of the station that I am, I have not had opportunity to learn to read nor write,” she explained to them. “Still, I wish to send this letter to the English under my own name, by my own pen, and this means I must sign it.”

There was a long silence, until finally the archbishop Regnault de Chartres stepped forward. “I shall teach you, child,” he said. And teach her he did. The letter was sent forward to the English that night.

When the provisions for Orleans had been gathered, the army moved out along the south side of the Loire River. The priests headed the assembly and sang hymns the whole way, for both days of their journey. Joan followed immediately behind them with her banner and her commanders. And of course, she continued to refuse to remove her armor when they stopped to camp at night.

On the third day of their trip, they arrived in Checy, at which point Joan became very irritated with her commanders. “We have gone past the English,” she said disapprovingly. “You led me here under the impression we were going to where Talbot and the English are, and for that I am most angry with all of you. We are soldiers! The dauphin's soldiers! This sort of cowardice will not grant us victory against the English.”

“Communicate your displeasure to the Bâtard d'Orleans,” La Hire said. “You will receive no remorse from us.”

Joan did exactly that. When they arrived at the point where barges were prepared to ferry the men across the river, the wind was unfavorable enough that there was to be a delay in their transport across. For the meantime, Joan insisted she be brought directly to Dunois, the Bâtard himself. “Are you the Bâtard d'Orleans?” she demanded of him.

Dunois didn't seem to notice the irritation in her tone, because he brightened at her approach. “I am he,” he replied, “and I rejoice at your arrival.”

Joan skipped the niceties. “Was it you who decided that I should come here, to this side of the river, rather than going straight to where Talbot and the English are?”

He looked a little cowed now, and somewhat apologetic. “I, and many others much wiser than myself, gave this counsel to your commanders, yes. We believed it would be better and safer for your arrival.”

“In God's name, the counsel of God our Lord is safer and wiser than yours,” Joan retorted. “You thought to deceive me, and you deceive yourselves more, because I bring you better aid than ever came to any soldier or city, because it is aid from the King of Heaven. Nevertheless it proceeds not from love of me, but from God Himself, who, at the request of Saint Louis and Saint Charlemagne, took pity on the city of Orleans, not wishing to allow the enemy to have both the body of the lord of Orleans and also his city.”

Dunois gaped at her. Just then, shouts rose up from the riverside.

“The wind! It's changed directions!”

“Lord Dunois! We can cross at last!”

Dunois turned at their cries, and then turned back towards Joan. His expression had gone from shock to borderline reverence. _A miracle,_ Tikki saw him mouth to himself.

“Lord Dunois,” a man said, coming up to the Bâtard's side, “we do not have enough barges for all of these men. We will not be able to take the whole army across.”

Dunois, still staring at Joan in awe, murmured a word of thanks to the man. “Joan la Pucelle,” he said. “Might you consent to cross the Loire with me, and come to the city of Orleans? Your troops will not be able to accompany us, but you yourself are eagerly awaited at Orleans.”

“I will not,” Joan replied. At Dunois' very put-out expression, she elaborated, “I do not wish to send away my good men-at-arms, who are well confessed, penitent, and of good will. Therefore, Lord Dunois, you must forgive me, but I will remain with my men.”

He visibly wilted. “I see,” he said, and made to leave. “That being the case, fair maid, I must needs speak with your commanders, so that we may come to a decision as to what will be done for the troops who cannot cross over.”

“Go,” Joan agreed. “I shall wait with my men for your decision.”

When the decision came not long thereafter, Joan was rather frustrated. The commanders had decided that she was to go ahead with Dunois, along with her brothers and a few of the commanders' numbers, while the rest of them would return to Blois to cross over the Loire there.

“I told him that I wanted to stay with my men-at-arms,” she grumbled to Tikki, rubbing at the Miraculous. “If they have to go all the way back to Blois, I would rather return with them.”

Tikki would have pointed out that it was Joan, and not the army, that the people of Orleans really wanted to see, but she was still in the Miraculous maintaining the transformation, so she had no choice but to keep quiet for the time being.

Joan took her horse and her banner with her across the river, where they waited until sundown to enter the city for the sake of “avoiding a mob,” as Dunois put it. “You hold a great amount of influence, la Pucelle,” he explained to her. “I wouldn't want for you to be overwhelmed by their pressing in.”

Despite his precautions, there was still chaos when the gates opened to admit them. Citizens both young and old, male and female, cheered loudly as Joan rode into the city. The crowds pressed in on every side. Hands stretched out to touch her, or her horse, or her banner—whatever was closest. Joan maintained her outer composure, but Tikki could tell that all the attention was unsettling for her. Her heart was hammering against her armor.

After a few minutes of travel through the city, they reached the home of Jacques Boucher, where they would all be lodging. Joan very nearly collapsed into bed once her armor was off.

“I told you that you were going to bruise,” Tikki remarked reproachfully, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Boucher's daughter, with whom Joan had been asked to share a bed due to a lack of space. Joan's arms and legs were covered in greenish-purple bruises, especially in the spots where the plates of her armor had overlapped.

Joan rubbed at a large bruise on her upper arm. “You know why I had to do it,” she murmured. “I could not camp with my men without doing so.”

“Joan, all of them respect you _and_ your mission,” Tikki pointed out. “They wouldn't lay so much as a finger on you.”

“I will not take any chances,” Joan said stubbornly. “Which is better, Tikki? That I be needlessly cautious, and bruise myself to protect my chastity, or that I let my guard down and risk losing something I can never get back?”

Tikki gave up the argument, knowing that there would be no convincing Joan.

The next day, there was very little fighting, since most of the troops were on their way back to Blois. La Hire led a skirmish against the English-controlled fortress of St. Pouair, but it ended with absolutely no progress having been made. Joan sent a letter with two messengers to the English that morning urging them to leave, which was not received kindly. One of the messengers was taken captive against normal conventions of war, and the other was sent back to her with a rather rude reply, sprinkled with insults, telling her to go back to the farm.

Rather than back down, Joan went herself that evening to a site where she could communicate directly with the English in the fortress of Les Tourelles. “Sir William Glasdale!” she called across the Loire. “This morning you have violated the laws of warfare, and even now you continue to occupy that which belongs to the French, in direct and flagrant opposition of the will of the King of Heaven. I warn you now, surrender in the name of God, or I and my men-at-arms will wipe you out entirely from this country.”

“In the name of God,” came the mocking reply, “we will not. Return to your farm, vachère.” Raucous laughter rose up from the English garrison, audible even from across the river. “Go on, you whore, or by God we swear we will burn you.”

Joan clenched her fists at her sides.

“Easy, Joan,” Tikki whispered to her from her hiding place under Joan's doublet. “They only want to goad you.”

“They are mocking the name of God,” Joan hissed. “Do they not realize that they condemn themselves by their own actions?” To the English, she called, “Glasdale, do not doom yourself and your men. Surrender now.”

“The day I surrender to a sorceress and a whore will be the day I die,” Glasdale retorted. “Begone with you.”

Joan's fists tightened, and her jaw clenched, but she went back into Orleans, the hoots and hollers of the English at her back.

Dunois and Joan's squire Jean d'Aulon left the next day to fetch the army from Blois. Since it was a Sunday, the commanders refrained from launching any attacks against the English. Even La Hire left well enough alone. The citizens of Orleans, however, seemed to take the lack of fighting as an opportunity to have a closer encounter with la Pucelle. Poor Jacques Boucher's door was nearly broken down in the process. Although Joan had seemed to greatly dislike the attention of the crowds two days ago, she finally decided to oblige and went through the streets on horseback for the people to see her. The resulting turnout was so packed that it was hard for her to even squeeze between them.

“I can't do this many more times, Tikki,” she said when they finally made it back to the Bouchers' house and she had tethered her horse. She looked more worn-out from the two hours or so of riding around the city than Tikki had ever seen her before. “The way they acted, you would have thought that an angel of God had come down to them.”

“Maybe an angel has,” Tikki commented with a smile.

Joan's lips twitched in the barest beginnings of a grin, but “don't blaspheme, Tikki” was all she said.

She tried again in the evening to convince Glasdale to surrender, with much the same results as last night.

The next day was spent inspecting the five fortresses under English control, from as close as Joan could manage to get, with Vespers following in the evening. A large crowd trailed after her for most of the day, leaving her just as exhausted (if not more so) than she had been the day before. The day after that was fairly uneventful, aside from a procession held by the clergy as an intercession on behalf of the besieged city.

It wasn't until the fifth day following Joan's arrival to Orleans that the army finally reached the city. Joan rode out to meet them, and to lead them into the city. After dinner, Dunois came to Joan's table to inform her that an English army, led by Sir John Fastolf, had been spotted approaching from the north to reinforce the troops at the fortresses. She brightened at the news. Tikki thought to herself that Joan was one of the only people she'd ever met who was so happy about hearing of the arrival of enemy troops.

“In God's name I command you to let me know as soon as you are aware of the arrival of Fastolf,” Joan quipped to Dunois, pointing at him in a comical mimicry of the way her commanders sometimes gestured to their men, “because if he should pass without my knowledge, I promise you that I will have your head removed.”

Dunois chuckled at that, but gave her a silly imitation of a bow and promised, “Have no fear, la Pucelle, for I shall make it known to you at once when he arrives.”

“You'll have to stay very well hidden tonight, Tikki,” Joan said when they were on their way back to the Boucher house to retire for the evening. “If the English are coming, I will need to sleep with my squire at the ready, and he cannot be allowed to see you.”

“Won't that be bad for your reputation as la Pucelle, though?” Tikki reasoned.

“I'm sure our kind hostess will be more than willing to join us,” Joan replied.

She was right—Boucher's wife chose to lodge with Joan and Jean d'Aulon. Joan snuck Tikki out from under her doublet and into her bags while Jean's back was turned. She said her night prayers, as usual, and laid down to rest.

Jean stayed up a bit longer, moving things around to make it easier for their preparations for battle. He had barely laid down to join Joan in slumber when she lurched up in her bed. Tikki, who had been unable to fall asleep until Jean stopped moving around, was jostled awake again. “Jean,” Joan said, shaking him. “Jean, you must wake up.” And she jumped to her feet, rushing to scoop Tikki from her bag back under her doublet.

Jean rolled over with a groan. “What is it that you want, Joan?” he mumbled.

“In God's name, my counsel has told me that I should go against the English; but I don't know whether I should go against their fortresses or against Fastolf, who is to resupply them.”

Jean rolled back to his initial position and settled back in. “Go back to sleep, Joan. Lord Dunois has already launched an assault against the fortress of Saint Loup.”

Joan froze and stared at him. “I was not informed of this.”

He sat up with another groan. “I take that to mean that you wish to go?”

“Yes, and at once.” Joan dashed for the stairs. “Prepare my armor. I must go speak to Louis.”

Tikki cringed. Louis de Coutes was the page who had been assigned the responsibility of informing Joan of any combat that took place. She did not envy the boy his current position. He was probably going to get a rather severe scolding.

Sure enough, when Joan found Louis on the first floor, she made a beeline for him. “Oh, you nasty boy, you didn't tell me that the blood of France was being spilled.”

“I—I—” he sputtered, going rather pale as he realized he was in trouble.

“Never mind your excuses,” Joan said. “My horse, at once. Go find him.” When Louis stood there, trembling and hesitating, she barked, “At once!” He dashed off to do as she said.

Tikki peeked out from the bottom of Joan's doublet. “Don't you think you were being too harsh on him?” she asked. “He's only a boy.”

“He would receive a far worse scolding at the mercy of another commander,” Joan replied as she jogged back up the stairs to be placed in her armor.

Jean helped her to put on her armor in record time. Within a few minutes of going upstairs, she was charging back downstairs to get to her horse. Jean was left scrambling to put his armor on with the aid of their hostess. “Tikki,” she said warningly.

“Somebody could come down the stairs after you!” Tikki protested.

“No time,” Joan said. “Transform me.” Tikki was pulled into the Miraculous with a hurried mental prayer that no one would see her transformation.

Outside, Joan's horse was at the ready—Louis had sprinted past on her way out the door, presumably to fetch her banner for her. She saddled herself and rode to wait under the window. Jean joined her on his own horse shortly thereafter. As soon as Louis passed the banner down to Joan through the window, she stirred her horse to a gallop in the direction of the fortress of Saint Loup.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: English soldiers in France spoke French, apparently, because it was still a common language among their nobility. They could speak English, but all of their exchanges with Joan would be in French.


	8. The Maid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long af please appreciate my efforts to write a halfway decent battle scene

At the Burgundy Gate as Joan rode out to meet Dunois' forces, she came to a sudden halt. A soldier was being carried back into the city, groaning, by two other men. He had clearly been in the thick of the battle. His armor was slick with blood, and there was a hideous gash that ran the length of his face from his temple down to his jaw on the left side, bleeding heavily. He was limp in the men's arms—he had probably passed out from blood loss. Tikki was willing to bet that even if he received some form of medical treatment, he wouldn't survive the night.

“Who is this man?” Joan asked the men in a trembling voice.

“A Frenchman,” one of them replied, readjusting his grip on the soldier's blood-slicked pauldrons.

Tikki felt, through the armor, a shiver run over Joan's body. “I never see the blood of Frenchmen without my hair rising on my head.” And she crossed herself.

The carnage only got worse as they went on. More groups passed, with wounded and dying men being carried back to Orleans, and when they neared Saint Loup, the ground began to be littered with bodies. Dead eyes stared, lifeless and unseeing, at Joan and Jean as they rode past. The grass was dark with blood that glimmered wetly under the light of the moon. A single racked sob escaped Joan, but she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of one armored hand and kept riding.

The fighting was the worst at Saint Loup—the French were being forced to pull back, pressed away by the English defenses. Joan let out a long breath and then raised her banner high.

The effect was nothing short of miraculous. All at once, a deafening cheer rose up from the French, and they surged forward against the English. The defenses around the fortress began to crumple like paper. Joan stirred her horse back into a gallop and rode forward to join her men.

The next three hours passed in a sort of blurred whirlwind. The stench of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air, and Tikki was certain her ears would be clanging with the echoes of swords clashing for weeks. Within a few minutes of Joan's arrival, the English fell back to the bell tower in Saint Loup to salvage what they could of their defenses. They held out admirably long, all things considered. But when the bell tower was finally claimed by the French, it was a massacre. Those who weren't killed were taken prisoner, only forty in number of the more than one hundred and fifty men originally in the garrison.

And Joan cried.

Friar Pasquerel stood by her side while she wept. He seemed to know that she didn't want comfort, and said nothing, only waited.

“They died without confessing,” Joan finally managed to choke out. “Father, their souls…” She dropped to her knees. “Please, Father, let me confess.”

He kneeled down in front of her with a sorrowful smile. “Of course, my dear. _In nomine Patrii, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti_ …”

That was the first and only time Tikki was present for one of Joan's confessions, and the raw grief and agony she displayed over her sins was more than enough to keep Tikki from ever wanting to overhear her confession again.

When Friar Pasquerel had concluded the prayers of absolution and Joan had wiped the last of her tears from her face, she gripped his shoulder tightly. “Father, please publicly advise all the soldiers to confess their sins and to give thanks to the King of Heaven for our victory today. Caution them that if they do not, I will withdraw myself from their society. But whatever they may do, I promise you that within five days, the siege on the city of Orleans shall be lifted.”

Battle was suspended the next day—it was the Feast of the Ascension, Joan explained to Tikki when she asked, which meant that as a holy day there was to be no fighting. She took the opportunity to write another letter to the English, and had an archer send it by arrow with the announcement “read, it is news!” Its reception by the English was not a kind one. After a delay in which Tikki could only imagine they were reading the letter amongst themselves, mocking shouts of “it's news from the whore of the Armagnacs!” rose up from the English fortresses. Joan didn't seem to take their response well. She spent the next half hour or so crying and praying.

That evening, the commanders updated Joan on their plans for the next day. Or at least, for part of their plans. They refused to tell her everything. Dunois tried to cover up with a vague explanation of the rest of their plan, and Joan seemed satisfied, but Tikki could sense her disappointment in them. She was hurt that they didn't seem to think she could keep a secret. Despite the commanders' determination to keep Joan in the dark, she took her place at the head of the army with La Hire the next day as if their secrecy hadn't offended her in the slightest.

Her presence, with her banner, proved again to be an inspiring force for the French. They took not only the church of St. Jean-le-Blanc that day, but also the Augustinian monastery it flanked. Les Tourelles, the most important of the fortresses, was almost within their reach. Joan camped with her men in the field surrounding the fortress that night.

One of the commanders came to her after dinner. “Joan, I and the other commanding officers have held council, and we have elected to pull back to the city for the evening while we await reinforcements. As a precaution.”

“You have been in your council,” Joan replied, “and I in mine; and know that the council of my Lord will be carried out and prevail, and this council will perish.” The commander blinked, looking taken aback, and probably would have said something if she hadn't then turned to Friar Pasquerel at her side and said, “Get up tomorrow early in the morning, and earlier than you did today, and do the best that you can.” Her fingers crept under the hem of her doublet to nudge Tikki, a warning that she needed to take note of what Joan was saying as well. “Always stay near me, for tomorrow I will have much to do and more than I ever had, and tomorrow blood will leave my body above the breast.”

Tikki paled. Joan was going to be injured? Tomorrow? How? Granted, she had made mention of it to Tikki on occasion in the past, but had never given a specific date. Tikki had thought she was just being paranoid about something that was the norm on the battlefield. She hadn't realized it was meant to be an actual prediction.

“If you think you're going to be injured tomorrow, then maybe you should consider using your Lucky Charm when it happens,” she suggested when they were alone and Joan was preparing for bed. “It will enable you to repair the damage done.”

“I will not.” Joan tightened the last piece of her armor back into place—she had decided to sleep in her armor again tonight as an added measure of security. She was getting better at putting it on without help.

“But Joan—”

“I told you I would not use the Lucky Charm or any of your powers of creation, Tikki,” Joan interrupted firmly. She caught herself then, obviously realizing she was speaking too harshly. Her expression became apologetic. “I'm sorry. But you must trust me. Everything I am doing is by the will of God. Even after I am injured, I will continue to lead my men as I am meant to do.”

Tikki frowned. She had come to respect Joan a great deal—she was easily the strongest, most resilient seventeen-year-old Tikki had ever met—but something told her that Joan didn't realize just how painful a wound on the battlefield could be. Especially in heavy plate armor. Joan would be lucky to join the fight again at all if she were to be injured, let alone lead the troops.

But Joan was technically her master, even if Tikki had trouble thinking of her as such, and so she held her tongue.

Their attack against Les Tourelles was launched at dawn. The commanders had stationed their men at numerous points around the palisade, and the troops surged forward at the signal seemingly without any fear. Whatever English troops were in the fortress had not prepared well for the assault. Scaling ladders were propped against the sides of the towers without much difficulty. It was only once soldiers began to scale the ladders that any strong resistance was met. Not long after their assault was fully underway, screams pierced the air as men were knocked from the tops of the ladders and those on the ground were wounded by archers. The coppery stench of blood was overpowering. Joan herself was positioned on the ground where her army was thickest, with her banner raised high. She didn't so much as touch the sword at her side. Friar Pasquerel, next to her as she had requested, kept his eye on her as she shouted encouragement to the men.

“Do not lose hope!” she yelled over the sharp cracks of cannonfire and clanging of weapons. “God is with us! He has promised us a great victory; we shall not leave Les Tourelles this day without it!”

Another man fell, not far away, with a sickening, ringing thud as his body hit the ground. He didn't get back up. The soldiers around him scattered to the sides for a moment, before swarming back in around the ladder he had fallen from. His body was hauled off by two squires to clear space for those trying to ascend.

“Forward!” Joan urged. “The fortress will soon be ours!”

She continued to shout similar things to her men for the next couple of hours, keeping her banner raised. And though the French fought just as fearlessly as they had on the first day of battle—perhaps even more so—they didn't seem to be making much headway. Tikki wondered if Joan's “counsel” might have been wrong about their predicted victory. Or if Joan's counsel might just be the invention of her own mind.

Then one of the scaling ladders was pushed back from the tower wall and fell to the ground. Soldiers scrambled to put it back into place. Joan noticed, and hurriedly dismounted to help. “All together, on a count of three,” she instructed them. “One, two—”

That was when the arrow struck.

It seemed to come out of nowhere, though Tikki knew it must have come from one of the English archers up above. She had never had cause to doubt her ability to protect her master before, trusting herself to provide an impenetrable defense, but the arrow struck right between two of the plates in Joan's armor, in the small space where her neck met her shoulder. Joan was flung backwards by the impact. She landed with a heavy thud on the ground, the arrow sticking out her back by several inches.

Friar Pasquerel came running. “Joan! Are you all right?”

She clutched at the wound tightly. “It has happened as I told you, Father.” To anyone else, her voice would have sounded remarkably steady for someone who had just been wounded by an arrow, but Tikki detected the almost imperceptible wobble that meant Joan was trying to hold back tears. “I need this to be tended…” She broke off, and now she _was_ crying. The sound was heartbreaking.

 _I'm so sorry, Joan,_ Tikki silently apologized to her charge.

Several other soldiers had come to Joan's side once they had realized she had been wounded. Among them was Jean de Metz, who took charge with Friar Pasquerel. “We need to move her. She cannot be tended to here. Gently,” he urged when the others went to pick her up. “We must avoid disturbing the injury.”

The soldiers did as he instructed, and Joan was carried off the battlefield. They seemed to be at a loss as to how to remedy the issue, though.

“Perhaps we could cast a charm,” one of them suggested, after several minutes of deliberating had gotten them nowhere. There was a general murmur of agreement.

Joan jerked in horror at that, and would have sat up immediately if Jean de Metz hadn't restrained her from doing so. “I would rather die than do something which I know to be a sin, or to be against God's will,” she said sharply.

“You heard her,” Jean de Metz said when the soldiers hesitated. “No charms.”

“You may treat it by other means,” Joan added.

“We will have to remove the arrow,” Jean warned her.

“Do it.”

He looked down at Joan with something that might have been pity. “It will be very painful for you. Wouldn't you prefer this to be done in Orleans?”

Joan attempted to sit up again, and was forced down a second time by Jean. “My men are fighting the godons, and I must return to them today. If we return to Orleans, I will not be allowed to go back to my men. You know this. Do it now.”

Jean sighed. The look he gave her was not unaffectionate, though. “Very well, la Pucelle. We will do it here.” To one of the other soldiers, he said, “Go to the camp and fetch cotton, olive oil, and bacon fat. We'll need to stop the bleeding once the arrow is removed.”

The soldier rushed off to do as he had been told. While they waited for him to return, Friar Pasquerel held Joan's hand and helped her to breathe through the pain. The desired materials were brought after about half an hour's wait, with a breathless apology for the delay. Only then was Joan allowed to sit up.

“Here,” Jean said, offering her a glove. “You'll want to bite down on this.” Joan allowed him to place the glove in her mouth, and braced herself with her fingers dug into the ground. He and Friar Pasquerel each grabbed one side of the arrow. At a nod from the friar, Jean snapped the head off the arrow. Joan screamed into the glove.

“You'll be all right, child,” Friar Pasquerel promised, smoothing Joan's hair away from her face where it had begun to stick from sweat. “Worry not.” Joan whimpered, but nodded her assent. Her moment of peace was short-lived as he pulled the shaft out the way it had come. The scream this time was much more prolonged.

Once the arrow was out, they had to act fast. Her wound was bleeding now at an alarming rate. The silver of the armor was already red, its surface slick by the time they managed to move the plates away to stuff the wound. Joan's screams died down to quiet sobbing. A couple of the soldiers looking on suddenly turned their heads, as if trying to find something they couldn't see. Tikki wondered if Joan's face had taken on its rapturous expression, and if so, if one of her saints was comforting her. Cotton was stuffed into the wound first, and then the bacon fat and olive oil were mixed together and applied to the surface. If she hadn't been inside the Miraculous, Tikki would have grimaced. She'd seen a lot of different medical techniques over the years for dressing wounds, but this was definitely one of the grosser ones.

“This is only temporary,” Jean cautioned her as they finished. “When we return to Orleans tonight, you will still have to have the wound dressed properly.”

“I understand,” Joan assured him. She probably would have tried to stand up then if he hadn't held her down. “But for the time being, I must return to my men. I cannot fulfill my mission by lying here like a cripple.”

“Your men are still fighting,” Jean said. “The commanders have not ceased their assault on account of your injury. Can you not hear them?” He fell silent, long enough for the echoing clangs and crashes of the battle to reach their ears. Joan relaxed marginally at the sound. “You must rest. Once you have recovered, you may rejoin your men.”

Joan sighed quietly, but didn't argue. She probably didn't have the strength to protest anymore. “Very well, Sir de Metz. I will rest. But I _will_ return to my men by sundown.”

The group took that as a sign that she was willing to return at least to the camp, if not to Orleans. Rather than permit her to walk, they insisted on carrying her the whole way, “as a precaution,” Friar Pasquerel explained to her. The instant they turned their backs to fetch chain mail that Joan could use in place of her plate armor (which was far too heavy for her to use now, given her injury), Tikki released her transformation and hid under Joan's breastplate.

“I'm sorry, Tikki,” Joan whispered to her as the men continued their hunt for Joan-sized chain mail. She stuck her finger under her breastplate, and rubbed the top of Tikki's head when she rose to meet it. “I must have given you a terrible fright today.”

“I ought to be the one apologizing,” Tikki whispered back. “I was supposed to protect you today, and I failed.” Seeing her charge's face for the first time since before dawn, and seeing how red and sweaty she was, the still-glimmering tracks where her tears had fallen, Tikki's heart ached with guilt. Joan was still so young. Still a child, in so many ways. She did not deserve to be sitting here in a war camp with her shoulder stuffed full of bloody cotton. Tikki felt even worse when Joan smiled at her.

“You did not fail,” she insisted. “You have protected me so well, Tikki. Just think, perhaps if I had not been granted the use of your armor, the arrow could have pierced straight through the plates rather than between them. It could have pierced my throat, or my heart. Then I surely would have died today.” The sound of someone running in armor drew near, and Joan hurriedly looked up and away.

“Here, la Pucelle. This can replace your armor until your wound has healed.”

There was a long series of rattling clinks, which Tikki presumed was the chain mail being dropped into Joan's hands. “Thank you, sir. Might I have privacy while I put it on?”

“Of course. Friar Pasquerel is waiting for you outside once you have finished.”

As soon as the soldier was gone, Joan gestured to Tikki that she could come out of hiding. Tikki flew up and out. “Please don't talk about the possibility of you dying, Joan. That's a horrible thing to think about.”

Joan was already occupied with removing her armor, wincing when she used her injured side without thinking. Tikki rushed to help her with the more difficult pieces as best she could. “We are dust, Tikki, and to dust we shall return. I am no different than any other mortal man on the battlefield.”

“But you are different,” Tikki protested. “You're here because of your mission, aren't you? I would say that _that_ is very different from any of the other soldiers here.”

Joan's smile took on a wry curve. “My mission does not make me immortal.”

She went to Friar Pasquerel and asked him to hear her confession before allowing herself any rest, and even then, she only rested for a few minutes. There was a moment of minor panic when she realized her banner had not been brought to the camp with her, which subsided when she was told her squire had been given charge of it. When sundown began to draw near, she requested that one of the men bring her a horse. She was going back to the battlefield.

“You'll have to hide under the mail, I'm afraid,” she said to Tikki. “I apologize if it's uncomfortable for you in any way.”

“I can provide you with chain mail armor,” Tikki pointed out. “Your transformation doesn't have to be plate armor. And then you won't have to worry about keeping me hidden.”

Joan looked surprised. That must not have occurred to her. Perhaps she had assumed the transformation could only take a single form. “That would be much easier,” she admitted. “Tikki, transform me.”

She and the others ran into Dunois on their way back to the battlefield. “You may as well return to the camp,” Dunois told them. “I was just on my way to inform you, la Pucelle, that the commanders have decided to pull back for the night. We have achieved nothing today.”

When Joan replied, her voice was terse. “Return to the commanders and tell them to wait a little longer. I will join them shortly.” She turned to Jean de Metz. “Help me to mount my horse. I must pray, alone.” Jean did as he was told. As soon as she was on her horse, Joan steered herself away from the group, towards a nearby vineyard.

She didn't pray for long. Maybe ten minutes at most, which for Joan was extremely brief. Tikki, knowing how much Joan valued her privacy during prayer, occupied herself with mental preparation for rejoining the fight.

The men, except for Dunois, were waiting right where Joan had left them when she returned. Dunois had presumably gone back to the battlefield to relay her earlier message. “My standard,” she said to Friar Pasquerel. “Where is it? I was told my squire had charge of it.”

“Dunois informed us it has been given to le Basque, so that the forces might see it and not lose hope,” he answered.

Joan stirred her horse to a canter. “I must retrieve it. Come! We return to the battle now!”

Once they reached the battlefield, it didn't take more than perhaps a minute for her to locate her banner. A bit of a tug-of-war ensued between her and the soldier referred to as le Basque, who apparently didn't realize that it was la Pucelle who was trying to take the banner from him. She eventually succeeded, and positioned herself at the top of the trench before the earthwork with her standard lifted high once more. Disbelieving (and rather dismayed) cries could be heard from the English atop the fortress. They must have presumed she was dead, Tikki realized. Joan had been holding the banner up for only a few seconds at most when the wind abruptly changed, and the standard began to blow in the direction of Les Tourelles.

“Our sign from God,” Joan murmured to Tikki. Out loud to her army, she shouted, “All is yours; enter!”

It was like the first day at the fortress of Saint Loup all over again. All at once, the French overran the earthwork, the English's defenses crumpling despite having held strong the whole day. Joan rode down to join her army in the fight, Friar Pasquerel at her side. Though she didn't draw her sword, she used the butt of her standard to club Englishmen in the head when necessary, which worked surprisingly well.

The tower side of Les Tourelles didn't seem to be faring much better for the English—the drawbridge was coming down, presumably so the men there could make an escape to the earthwork. For the Englishmen's sake, Tikki hoped none of them tried it. A fisherman from Orleans had been appointed the previous day to set his boat ablaze and beach it beneath the drawbridge if it were to come down. If one had been able to peer through the chaos taking place on the earthwork, they would have been able to spot the fisherman right this moment doing as he had been instructed. Almost as soon as the drawbridge was fully dropped, thick smoke began to rise.

Joan plowed her way through the English forces in the direction of the drawbridge. Wondering why, Tikki belatedly remembered that Glasdale had been positioned in the towers. Joan was after a surrender.

An English soldier attempted to yank Joan down from her horse; she turned on him and dealt him a sharp blow with her standard. He let go in favor of clutching his shoulder where she had struck him. She turned her horse back towards the drawbridge and continued on her way. Friar Pasquerel had to sidestep the now-stumbling soldier to follow.

She stopped short at the edge of the earthwork. A moment later, Tikki and Friar Pasquerel could see why: there were figures visible through the smoke on the drawbridge, making an attempt to run across despite the flames licking at the timber.

“Glasdale, Glasdale, submit, submit to the King of Heaven!” Joan shouted to the figures, her voice breaking in desperation. Tikki wasn't sure how Joan was able to recognize Glasdale from that distance, let alone through all the smoke, but she knew Joan well enough to know that if she believed one of the men to be Glasdale, then it was Glasdale. “You called me a whore, but I have great pity for the souls of your people and yourself.”

Perhaps if he had had more time to consider, Glasdale would have submitted. But the words were hardly out of Joan's mouth when, in one great smoky _whoosh_ , the drawbridge collapsed into the river. Glasdale and the others floated for only a moment before their armor pulled them under. Joan let out a loud, ragged cry of despair.

As the French behind her destroyed what was left of the English troops and victory cries began to rise from their ranks, Joan buried her face in her hands and wept.

She spoke little for the rest of the night during the proper dressing of her wound, while the rest of Orleans was celebrating with cheers and songs of praise to God. Though she smiled when spoken to, and seemed genuinely happy for their victory, she was obviously still distraught over what had happened to Glasdale and the others who had been with him. She ate only four pieces of bread before going to bed. Tikki tried to offer her comfort by snuggling close, but she wasn't sure how much it helped.

The next day, Joan was informed that the English were lining their forces up outside of Orleans—what was left of them, anyway. Her commanders, and her army, were already waiting for her at the city gates. Joan hastily threw on the chain mail she had been provided and rode out to join them. For an hour, the two armies faced one another, neither one making a move to initiate another battle. The French probably would have liked to attack, but Joan barked out an order for them to stay put. Then, slowly, very slowly, the English forces turned and began to retreat, making their way in the direction of far-off Meung-sur-Loire.

Some of the French attempted to pursue them, but Joan held up her hand to signal a halt. “In God's name, they are going; let them leave, and let us go give thanks to God and not pursue them any further, for it's Sunday.” With that, she turned her horse back towards Orleans. Her commanders followed, giving the army no choice but to obey her orders.

The rejoicing in Orleans that day was even greater than it had been the day before. A grand procession was made through the city, and the Mass was filled with hymns of praise and thanksgiving. Joan scarcely had a moment to herself, what with all of the crowds who wanted to speak with her, to thank her, even just to touch her garments. A few women attempted to kiss her hand, but Joan withdrew from their touch with a gentle admonition to give their thanks instead to God. It wasn't until supper time that the attention died down enough that she could spend time with her companions, and even then, people kept bursting into the room and interrupting every few minutes. By the time it came for her to prepare for bed, Joan looked exhausted.

“Joan.”

She halted on the way up the stairs and turned to face the owner of the voice. “Yes, Sir de Metz?” Hidden inside her doublet, Tikki sighed in affectionate exasperation. Leave it to Joan to engage in conversation even when she was practically ready to fall asleep on her feet.

“You really did it,” Jean said, and there was no surprise in his voice. Only a reverent wonder. “More than ever, I find myself believing that you are truly sent from God. Already your mission is halfway completed. All that's left for us to do is clear the way to Rheims, and the dauphin will be crowned just as you said.”

Joan hesitated, then went back down the stairs to join him. “There is still much for me to do,” she assured him. “My mandate is to have my dauphin crowned king, but my mission will continue after that is done.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm afraid you and my good commanders will have to remain in my company for quite some time.”

Jean laughed. “I would not have it any other way, la Pucelle. You do us all good. You know what they're calling you now, don't you? The Maid of Orleans. You're their hero.”

Joan laughed as well, but only for a moment. “They ought to consider God their hero, not me. I am—” There was a long pause. Curious, Tikki peeked out from under the doublet to see what was going on, and saw that Joan was looking intently at a silver ring on Jean's hand.

That ring was familiar.

“Sir de Metz,” Joan said. “That's a curious ring. I don't believe I remember you having that when we first met.”

Jean twisted the ring around. “A gift,” he said with a knowing smile. “From an unknown benefactor. It seems there are a lot of them around these days.” He gestured towards Joan's earrings, and gave her a nod of farewell. “I should let you get your rest. Good night, Joan.”

Joan seemed too thunderstruck to say anything in reply as he departed. She glanced down at Tikki, her eyes wide. Tikki, equally shocked, nodded.

Jean de Metz had Plagg's Miraculous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan did in fact testify that she had received comfort from Saint Catherine while her wound was being treated off the field. She received a lot of comfort from her saints during times of suffering and hardship.


	9. King Charles VII

Joan didn't stay long in Orleans; the very next day, she and her men, accompanied by Dunois, rode down to Clery, ten miles south. She had only been there for a day when she was told that Charles had been informed of her victory, and that she was to ride to Loches to meet him. She didn't waste any time in preparing to leave.

By the time they reached Loches, Charles was already there. Joan, banner in hand, rode to meet him in the castle courtyard. As soon as she had reached him, she bowed as deeply as she could manage on horseback.

Charles clucked his tongue. “Raise your head, child. You needn't remain prostrated like that.”

Joan straightened, and Tikki took the opportunity to peek out just above the top of her collar and see the dauphin. He was smiling from ear to ear, obviously overjoyed; it wouldn't have surprised Tikki at all if he had pulled Joan down from her horse to embrace her right then and there.

“My lord dauphin,” Joan said, and she was also smiling, “it is good to see you again. If it pleases you, I would have an audience with you this evening. There is much for us to discuss.”

“Nothing would please me more,” he replied. “You and your company shall lodge here in the castle. One of my court shall send for you when we are ready for your audience.”

Joan and the others were escorted from the courtyard, their horses sent to the stables while they went inside to put their things in the rooms that were provided to them. An hour after dinner, Joan was sent for.

Charles was already seated on the throne in the audience room, surrounded by his counsel, when she arrived. She didn't waste any time in going down on her knees and embracing his legs. Nor did she bother with small talk before saying, “Noble dauphin, do not take so many and such lengthy deliberations, but come as quickly as possible to Rheims, to take a worthy crown.”

He inhaled sharply, obviously surprised once again at Joan's capability to discern the heart of his situation. Tikki saw him glance around at his counsel for input. One of them nodded, and cleared his throat. Joan lifted her head to look at the man.

“Did your Counsel say this to you, la Pucelle?”

She ducked her head. “Yes,” she admitted. “I have been much prompted on the subject.”

“Are you not willing to say, in the presence of the King, the manner of your Counsel when it speaks to you?” the man questioned.

Joan's face reddened in a rare blush. “I understand well enough what it is you wish to know,” she said, “and I will freely tell you. People do not always readily believe that what I have said comes from God. And when this displeases me, I withdraw apart and pray to the King of Heaven, and I complain to Him that the people will not believe me.” She had let go of Charles' legs now, folding her hands instead in her lap as she answered the noble. Her face had begun to take on that radiant cast that made her look truly like an angel sent from above. “When my prayer is completed, I hear a voice which says to me, 'Daughter of God, go, go, go; I will aid you, go.'” Her gaze flew upwards, almost as if she could see her saints right at that moment. “And in hearing those words, I am overcome with great joy, and I wish always to be in that state.”

Her voice ended on an exultant note, and for a long moment, both the counsel and the dauphin seemed too awed by her explanation to say anything. Then Charles gestured, half dazed, to his counsel.

“Prepare to send the army north to clear a way to Rheims,” he said.

~

Clearing the Loire Valley for Charles' journey north was another long series of miracles stirred by Joan's presence. Even Tikki, who had always strongly believed in the good fortune of her holders, was dumbfounded at her unparalleled success. By early June, she was wearing plate armor again, and Jargeau, the first city on their march, was recovered from the English in only one day. A cannon which had been named “The Shepherdess” in Joan's honor took down Jargeau's tallest tower in three shots. Lord Suffolk, the English captain, ended up surrendering to a soldier who wasn't even a full-fledged knight.

The garrison at Beaugency was the next to fall. They didn't even put up much of a fight. After a single small-scale ambush, and news that reinforcements were coming to the French, the English commanders seemed to be all too happy to surrender to the Duke of Alençon. With Beaugency secured, the only English forces left that needed to be dealt with were those situated at Meung-sur-Loire. Joan would get to face Sir Fastolf and Lord Talbot once again.

They came within sight of the English forces on June seventeenth, but as it was late, Joan decided both sides would be best off to wait until the next day. When they rejoined on the eighteenth, it wasn't long before the English began to fall back towards Patay. La Hire, who had been sent to serve with Joan a second time and who had been given command of the vanguard, led a charge against Talbot's forces on the southern line which ended in Talbot being taken prisoner. Fastolf, in the meantime, had attempted to catch up with the English vanguard, but his forces hadn't even managed to catch up when their vanguard broke ranks and fled the battlefield. Presumably much to Fastolf's chagrin, his men followed the vanguard's example, making them all easy targets for the French. Few survived, and most who did were taken prisoner.

When Joan and the Duke of Alençon returned to Patay at the end of the day, a surprise prisoner was brought before them: Sir Fastolf himself. The Duke of Alençon looked Fastolf up and down, and shook his head.

“This morning, I hadn't thought that things would happen the way they did,” he remarked.

Fastolf probably would have glared at him, but he looked too worn down to bother. “It is the fortune of war,” he answered curtly.

The “fortune of war” and news of Fastolf's capture (along with the capture of most of the other English commanders at Patay) broke the spirit of the few remaining English garrisons in the Loire Valley. Most of them fled their positions.

Charles' route to Rheims was now wide open.

But though the route was opened, he did not come. The city of Rheims, which had begun to prepare for his arrival by decorating the streets to an almost excessive level, was left waiting and wondering why the dauphin had yet to begin the journey. When Joan received the news, she was not happy at all. She rode to meet Charles at St-Benit-sur-Loire for another royal audience.

Charles' face was contorted with concern when she came to him. “Joan,” he said, “you ought to rest.” Tikki personally agreed with him. Joan had hardly rested since her last audience with the dauphin. It couldn't be healthy for her.

Joan started to cry on the spot—whether from the suspected fatigue or from frustration, Tikki wasn't sure—and said, “You should not have any doubts in going to Rheims, my lord dauphin. You shall gain your entire kingdom, and soon be crowned.”

He hesitated, looking round at his counsel as he seemed so wont to do. Some shrugged, and one shook his head a fraction of an inch.

Joan worried at her bottom lip. “Noble dauphin, if you will not go to Rheims, you at least might visit your commanders in Orleans. They have served you and God well.”

“I suppose that couldn't hurt,” Charles agreed. “We shall see. Now go and rest.”

Joan was rather pleased with herself when, several days later in Orleans, it was decided that the coronation march to Rheims would begin. The army led the way, with Charles and his full council following about two days' worth of travel behind. Shortly after taking off, Joan noticed that prostitutes were hanging around some of the newer army recruits. One of the swords she had been gifted by the dauphin made its debut that day—she drew it and smacked some of the girls with the flat of the blade so hard that she ended up breaking it. Charles scolded her afterwards and told her that she ought to use a baton the next time instead.

The army made a couple of detours on the trip to reclaim some of the cities controlled by Burgundy. Though one of Joan's commanders overruled the decision to take Auxerre, they did lay siege to Troyes at Joan's request. Not long after she ordered her men to start filling the moat and build siegeworks, the city officials emerged for negotiations to surrender. When the victorious French army entered the city the next day, Joan had the archers stand along the roads as a greeting for Charles. Later, after the dauphin had arrived and celebrations were underway, she was asked by one couple to take part in their baby's baptism as godmother. She gladly agreed.

Seeing Joan holding the baby during the baptism, and how she smiled, Tikki's heart was stung once again knowing just how much her charge had sacrificed to save France.

With Troyes claimed, the army headed straight for Rheims without any further detours. Joan was so excited by this point that Tikki thought she probably would have tried to travel without stopping to rest if it hadn't been for the fact she had the wellbeing of an army to consider.

Then, about twelve miles from Rheims, Joan was informed that the dauphin had asked the army to stop. Ordering her commanders to stay put and wait, she wheeled her horse around to confront Charles. When she got to him, he looked too ashamed to meet her eyes.

“I thank for all you've done up to this point, la Pucelle,” he said. “But a great concern has been troubling me. Rheims has been under Burgundy's control, and our army has very little artillery left. Should the citizens choose to resist our entry, I am afraid this campaign will fail.”

Joan looked at him for a moment as she turned her horse to face the direction of Rheims again. “Have no fear,” she replied. “The townsmen of Rheims will come out to meet you. Now come, let us go to meet them.” Without waiting for his reply, she went back to the head of the army. To her commanders, she said, “We shall continue as planned.”'

Her prediction proved yet again to be correct: when Charles arrived in Rheims that evening, he was greeted by the citizens with loud cheers and cries of “noël!” He almost didn't seem to know what to do about such a warm reception, until one of his advisors murmured something to him. He visibly straightened in his saddle, and began to wave every so often to the people in the cheering crowds. Joan beamed with satisfaction.

She herself received a great surprise that night; both of her parents had come to Rheims for the coronation and were staying in an inn across from the cathedral. When she was given the news after supper, she practically sprinted across the city to get to them. They came down to meet her at the entrance of the inn. Joan came close to knocking them both over in her haste to embrace them.

“I'm so sorry for having left home without telling you of my plans,” she said softly. There was a very faint wobble in her voice, and Tikki could tell immediately that she was starting to cry.

Her mother moved out of her embrace just enough to smooth some of Joan's hair back from her face. “Do not apologize for obeying God.”

Her father clapped her on the shoulder. “You have done exactly as you promised to the dauphin, have you not? We could not be prouder.”

Joan smiled and laughed through her tears, and hugged them both again. The reunion was made almost perfect when, several minutes later, her brothers Pierre and Jean came running from the army's lodgings to join them. The family went into the inn together, where they sat and the three children updated their parents on all that had happened since January. Tikki nestled close to Joan under her doublet and relished the scant time her charge could behave like a normal girl.

Charles' coronation ceremony began the next day at nine in the morning. Joan was up two hours beforehand preparing herself—checking and double-checking that she had her banner by the door so she couldn't forget it, smoothing her hair into place repeatedly, yanking on her armor piece by piece between her other preparations.

“You could just transform for the coronation,” Tikki pointed out as Joan wrestled with the breastplate. “It would spare you a great deal of trouble.”

Joan paused mid-struggle to look over at Tikki. “Nonsense,” she said. When Tikki opened her mouth to argue, she explained, “You have played a role in the dauphin's success as much as I have, Tikki. Without you, I would have likely died at Orleans. You ought to be able to watch the coronation with me properly.”

Well, then. How was Tikki supposed to argue with that? She allowed Joan to finish donning her armor, and then zipped into the space underneath her breastplate.

The ceremony itself was every bit as long as Tikki had anticipated it would be. The symbolic anointing with holy oil took up multiple hours (mostly because the vial of oil had been required to be processed through the city to the cathedral before the actual anointing could take place), and the ceremony for the crowning almost equally as long. Joan remained at Charles' side the whole time, her banner in hand and Tikki peeking out from between her gorget and breastplate to watch. When the archbishop finally lifted the crown, Joan was practically quivering in anticipation. A tear fell and plopped on Tikki's forehead. Glancing up, she saw that her charge was crying.

As soon as the crown touched Charles' head, the entire cathedral burst into shouts of “noël,” and the trumpets lining the walls sounded their fanfare. Joan, smiling through her tears, went down to her knees and embraced Charles' legs just as she had done in Loches.

“Noble king,” Tikki heard her say, “now is accomplished the will of God, who wished me to lift the siege of Orleans, and to bring you to this city of Rheims to receive your holy anointing, to show that you are the true king, and the one to whom the kingdom of France should belong.” The statement was so simple yet so passionately joyful that Tikki found she herself was blinking back a few tears.

Charles bid Joan to stand, which she did at once. Her banner, which she had dropped when she had embraced him, was picked up by Jean de Metz (who had stood behind Joan on the sidelines with the rest of her military household throughout the ceremony) and returned to her. Then Charles led the procession out of the cathedral, with all the clergy and Joan following behind, amidst the cheers of “noël” and the trumpet blasts. Tikki nuzzled close to Joan's side under her armor.

“I'm so proud of you, Joan,” she whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan actually met Charles' son, the future King Louis XI, during her campaign through the Loire Valley. King Louis XI would remember meeting the famous Maid of Orleans all his life.


	10. Paris

Even after Charles' coronation, Joan didn't stop to rest. When Charles departed Rheims at the end of July, she and her army joined him. They went first to Corbeny, then Soissons, then Chateau-Thierry. It was there that Joan began to itch for another battle, and that Charles made what seemed to Tikki to be an attempt to keep her at court. On the last day of July, he put into motion an act to rescind all levies and taxes on her hometown of Domremy and the neighboring town of Greux. Joan was flattered, but she was still itching for battle.

She wanted to march on Paris.

“Please wait,” Charles urged her. “We are drawing up a treaty with Burgundy, and the Duke has promised he will return Paris to France at the end of it. Let us avoid more bloodshed.”

“Paris is lightly fortified; give me your permission and we shall have it now,” Joan insisted. “I do not trust the Duke of Burgundy to keep his promise.”

“If we march on Paris, all of our work to obtain this treaty will be for naught,” he protested.

“If you obtain this treaty, all of your work to regain Paris will be for naught,” she retorted. “Please, my king, let me go to Paris. I promise you it will be taken.”

But despite all of her pleading and arguments, she was not permitted to go. The treaty between Charles and Burgundy was signed on the fifth of August, and Joan's hands were officially tied. If she marched on Paris, she would be breaking her loyalty to her king.

Joan was not happy about this development. “We could have taken the place,” she grumbled to Tikki that night. “It has almost no protection. I could have gone and reclaimed the city in a day, two if the godons fought well enough.”

Tikki perched on top of Joan's discarded armor and watched her charge pace back and forth agitatedly. “You're going to wait out the treaty, then?”

“I have no choice,” Joan answered, her voice so terse she was on the verge of snapping. “If I wish to preserve King Charles' honor, I have to wait.”

Her frustration was not helped in the least by the route Charles' entourage was taking through France. They were, as Joan put it, almost “unbearably” close to Paris and to the English forces. It was close enough that a small skirmish was able to break out between the two armies on the fourteenth, albeit without any fatalities and only ten Englishmen captured. The French had just reached Compiegne when the treaty expired.

True to Joan's expectations, the Duke of Burgundy did not relinquish Paris when the treaty's term was up. Rather, he had sent English troops to fortify the city against the French. Charles' hope to regain Paris was looking to be a complete failure.

After a few days at Compiegne wherein Charles and his council debated how to proceed without actually getting much of anything accomplished, Joan had had enough. She wanted to take Paris, and she was tired of dancing around the desires of the royal court. She rode south to Saint Denis with a small group of two or three hundred men. Within three days, she had captured the observation outpost at Berthmont, just outside of Paris.

Charles and his council finally conceded to come south at that point, though they lingered exasperatingly long in Senlis. When she wasn't testing Paris' defenses, Joan occupied herself with scouting the city walls to help keep her frustration with the royal court at bay. Most of her interactions were with Tikki and the few commanders who had come with her to Saint Denis. At night, though, she took to pacing again. Just as she had in Chinon, Tikki teased her that she would wear a hole in the floor if she kept pacing, but unlike in Chinon, Joan's response this time was only a tired sigh.

When Charles did arrive on September seventh, Joan wasted no time. A vigil was held at the church that night, and Mass followed the next morning. As soon as Mass had ended, Joan transformed and went to lead her assault on Paris with the Duke of Alençon close behind.

Most of the morning was unsuccessful and, by normal warfare standards, quite uneventful as well. There was virtually no actual battle: the English were firmly planted at their stations along the twenty-five-foot tall wall and didn't so much as budge when the French arrived. It would have helped, of course, if there hadn't been trenches and water-filled ditches standing in the way of the French army's advance.

“Have the men fetch bourrees and faggots,” Joan said to the duke. “We have to fill the trenches and ditches to reach the walls. If we can ascend the walls, the place will be ours.” He nodded and passed the command along, while Joan passed it in the other direction. There was a mad scramble to fetch the items in question.

It had been a long time since one of Tikki's masters had last been in a war, she realized—it took her actually seeing one of the bourrees to remember that they were just bundles of wood. Heaps upon heaps were thrown into the trenches, along with the faggots Joan had called for. The process was painstaking. At some point, Joan dismounted her horse to help her men fill the trenches, but it only marginally sped up the process. It still took hours for the trenches to fill enough that they could move onto filling the ditches. Those, at least, went a little faster thanks to them already being partially filled with water. As soon as the last of the wood had been thrown in, Joan slung herself back into the saddle and tilted her banner forward to signal the army's advance. “Forward!” she shouted.

The French surged up against the wall, but already Tikki could tell that the battle wasn't going to end well. The English guards atop the wall looked almost bored as they loaded their crossbows to fire down into the melee. Whatever siege ladders were laid against the wall were almost immediately knocked down again, in the few instances that they were tall enough to even reach the top of the wall in the first place. Joan stubbornly stayed at the head of the army, urging the men as best she could over the screams of the dying and wounded who had been struck by English arrows.

Or at least, she did for most of the day.

Around what must have been close to sundown, Tikki began to get the sense that her charge was just as discouraged by their lack of progress as she was. Joan's shouts of encouragement were growing fewer and farther between, her banner starting to sag in her hand ever so slightly. She would have thought Joan was bracing herself to call for a retreat if Joan hadn't instead turned to the duke in that moment and instructed him to stay at the front with her banner. “I am going to retrieve aid,” she explained simply. Then she wheeled her horse around and rode to the back of her army, past them, until they were reduced to a large, surging blob in her field of view.

“God forgive me for what I am about to do,” she murmured. She took a deep breath and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “Tikki, Lucky Charm.”

If Tikki hadn't been in the Miraculous, her eyes probably would have been bugging out of her head in shock. A cloud of red magic whirled around Joan's hands, leaving a small lantern in its wake. Joan stared at it, obviously baffled.

“This isn't quite what I was hoping for, Tikki,” she said as she held the lantern up to inspect it. “Can't I get something else?”

Inwardly, Tikki winced. _Sorry, Joan_.

When she had been looking at the lantern expectantly for about half a minute and nothing happened, she sighed. “I'll take that as a no,” she muttered. She adjusted her grip on the lantern and stirred her horse into a gallop to rejoin the troops.

The Duke of Alençon looked stunned that she had returned so fast. “The aid?” he asked.

“They aren't coming,” Joan answered tersely. “We shall have to continue the assault on our own.”

“And the lantern?” The duke nodded towards the object in question.

“It is almost nightfall,” she reasoned. It was a rather good way to cover, in Tikki's opinion, especially considering that Joan couldn't seem to figure out what she was meant to do with it. “We will need light.”

“You certainly have thought ahead,” he remarked. He passed her banner back to her. “Let us continue our assault.”

Joan's earrings beeped.

Fortunately, the sounds of the fight around them were too loud for anyone to hear the beeping except for Joan. But it meant her transformation was very low on time. Nervously, Tikki began counting down the minutes until Joan would have to fight without her supernatural protection. At the very least, she hoped Joan would figure out what the lantern was for. It wasn't like she could just pop out of the earrings and tell her.

Joan's earrings beeped again.

And again.

And still she hadn't used the lantern.

By the time they beeped out the four minute mark, Tikki was on the verge of a minor panic. She had to concentrate very hard on maintaining the transformation, or her worry would have made her drop it in an instant. _Joan knows what she's doing_ , she told herself. _She has her counsel to guide her. She knows what she's doing. Even if she loses her transformation now, she's still the same commander as always. The great guardian wouldn't have chosen her otherwise. She'll be all right._

The final beeps came just as the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. Tikki was grateful for the coincidence, and was certain Joan was too, since it meant the soldiers around her likely thought the red light of her dropped transformation was an effect of the sunset's glare. Everyone was too distracted by the fight to notice the disappearance of the lantern. Tikki herself zipped under Joan's breastplate as quickly as she could manage.

Everything went very much downhill after that. Joan had only been fighting transformation-free for ten minutes at most when Tikki heard the sickening sound of a crossbow bolt piercing through metal, and her charge screamed. There was a clattering thud all around, and Tikki realized Joan had been knocked off her horse by the bolt.

“Never mind me!” Joan yelled. Some of her men had probably come to her aid, Tikki suspected. “Continue the attack! I said, 'continue the attack'!” Tikki peeked between the plates of Joan's armor just in time to see several soldiers scoop her up to carry her off the field. Someone else went to retrieve her horse, which was rearing up in a panic.

She was carried all the way back to her tent on the Rue de La Chapelle, insisting the whole time that they put her down and continue their assault. They didn't listen. Joan was left in her tent with orders to rest.

“By my staff, the place would have been taken,” she muttered.

Tikki slipped out of Joan's breastplate then to inspect the damage. The bolt had pierced straight through the armor covering Joan's right thigh, a little ways above her kneecap. Unlike the arrow that had struck her at Orleans, the bolt hadn't gone all the way through—it looked like only the head had actually gone in. Blood pooled sluggishly around the injury.

“Maybe you shouldn't have used the Lucky Charm,” Tikki said as she looked over the wound. She didn't want to sound like she was blaming Joan for the injury, but the fact of the matter was that without the Lucky Charm causing her to lose her transformation, the bolt would never have managed to pierce her armor. The Miraculous' armor would have deflected it easily. And then Joan could have continued the assault like she wanted.

Joan covered her face with one arm wearily. “I did not know what else to do. We were accomplishing nothing, and I had hoped that your Lucky Charm might shift our fortune. I hadn't realized that it would be a lantern.” She lowered her arm to look at Tikki. “Why a lantern?”

Tikki ducked her head. “I can't entirely control what the Lucky Charm provides you,” she explained reluctantly. “It could have given you any number of things. When you call on Lucky Charm, I don't have any time to plan out what to give you, so I just provide whatever I can.” She dropped down to sit on Joan's uninjured leg. “I'm sorry it was not able to help you.”

Joan smiled, just a little, and reached over to pat the dot on Tikki's forehead. “We can try again tomorrow.”

But they would not, in fact, try again tomorrow. When Joan and the Duke of Alençon were preparing to leave the army camp for Paris the next morning, messengers came with the news that Charles had called an immediate meeting with them. Joan struck the front of her saddle in frustration, but did as she was told and rode to join Charles at Saint Denis. Her frustration only grew when Charles told her personally that all further attacks on Paris were to be stopped and the bridge they had managed to build over another area of the Seine was to be destroyed. The council meeting that was held with Charles' advisors went no better. Despite all of Joan's protests, and the duke's too, it was decided that the army would retreat. They were going to sign another treaty with Burgundy.

Joan went the next morning to the church in Saint Denis. Though she didn't have time to hear Mass before their planned departure, she did have enough time to pray for a few minutes and to leave a suit of armor as a votive offering. Then she was resigned to getting on her horse and leaving Paris behind in Burgundian hands.

The next few months were a fresh hell for Joan. She was kept cooped up at Charles' court, not even allowed to go to Domremy to visit her family. Her commanders had been dispersed to their estates and former sites of military action. The Duke of Alençon wrote over the winter asking that Charles allow Joan to accompany him on a military expedition to Normandy, but his request was refused. She was only permitted to lead two campaigns the whole time—one a small attack on Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, which they captured in an astonishing turn of fortune towards the end of the day, and the other a siege on La-Charite-sur-Loire, which ended in crushing defeat when the royal court left the army drastically undersupplied. The only real bright point for Joan was a gift delivered from the Duke of Orleans, a robe and tunic that were bordered in nettle leaves of silk and lined with white satin. The accompanying letter explained that the clothing had been commissioned for her in honor of what she had achieved at Orleans. Joan wore them often. They seemed to be a comfort to her while she was stuck with the royal court.

Then, in early April, Joan decided she had had enough.

She was going to lead a military campaign again, whether Charles liked it or not.

It wouldn't be a large campaign, she explained to Tikki; only about two hundred men were in the company she ended up joining. But it was something. Her brother Pierre, along with Friar Pasquerel, Jean d'Aulon, and Jean de Metz, also accompanied her. They fought at Lagny-sur-Marne, where Joan's prayers also revived a dead infant long enough for it to be baptized, and then moved onto Melun around Eastertide. She prayed there too, as she always prayed in the places they traveled, but only in private. It was while they were at Melun and Joan was praying that Tikki was called out into the open by her charge. Joan's eyes were wide, her expression panicked.

“My time is nearly over, Tikki,” she said before Tikki could even open her mouth to ask what was wrong. “My saints have told me that I will be captured before Saint John's Day this year.”

Saint John's Day was only two months away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: (or not so fun, depending on how you look at it) Joan never saw the Duke of Alençon again after they fought together at Paris. She called him her "good duke," and was very upset about not being able to join him on his later campaigns.


	11. Betrayal

By the start of May, Charles seemed to have realized that the Duke of Burgundy had played him and the rest of the royal court for fools. He and his advisors began to order attacks on the territory Burgundy had claimed in the eastern region of France at once. But their attention would have been better directed further north: the Burgundians were laying siege to the city of Compiegne. The city was putting up a fight, but it was clear that without military action to defend it, all of the supply routes into the city would be cut off.

“They have fought well,” Joan commented to Tikki while she was staying at Crepy-en-Valois. “I believe they deserve the aid they have asked for, don't you?” She spent the next few days rallying troops to join her on a campaign to Compiegne. Only about three hundred men volunteered.

“Joan, you cannot possibly expect to save Compiegne with such a small group,” Tikki protested as her charge prepared her things to leave Crepy-en-Valois. “You have only a little more than a month left before your voices told you that your time is up, and Burgundy has almost all of Compiegne's supply routes cut off already. It would take more time than you have to rescue them.”

“The good Duke of Alençon said it would have taken him six or seven months to accomplish what we did at Orleans in five days,” Joan replied. She set her bags aside and leaned back against the wall. “Admittedly, I had more men then, and King Charles' endorsement, but I believe that we can still achieve the same results. We need only have faith.”

Tikki sighed in defeat and hugged Joan's cheek. “Just be careful.”

On May twenty-second, Joan and her men left for Compiegne, arriving there around sunrise of the twenty-third. While the men prepared for battle, Joan first spoke to the garrison commander and then made her way to the church to pray.

Word must have spread quickly that the leader of the group that had arrived was none other than la Pucelle; a group of children poked their heads into the church while Joan was in the middle of praying, and clustered around to watch. Tikki slipped under Joan's doublet hurriedly. She continued her prayers as if there had been no interruption, finishing several minutes after the children had come in. Tikki heard a sniffle and realized Joan had started crying at some point during her prayers.

“Are you all right?” one of the children asked.

Joan knelt in front of them so that she was at their eye level. “I am. But would you do something for me, all of you?” Tikki peeked out from underneath Joan's doublet just in time to see the children nod. “Please, pray for me, for I have been betrayed.”

The children's eyes went wide, but they agreed to pray for her and went on their way. As soon as they were out of the church, Tikki came out of hiding.

“Betrayed?” she repeated, trying not to let her voice keen in panic the way it seemed to want to at the moment. If Joan thought she had been betrayed, then that meant…

“My time is coming to an end,” Joan confirmed. She fell silent in thought for a moment, then asked, “What sort of powers has Sir de Metz been given by his kwami?”

Tikki wasn't sure at all what that had to do with Joan's time being up, but she answered anyway. “The ring of the black cat gives its bearer powers of destruction.”

Joan's eyes widened. “Does he have a power similar to your Lucky Charm?”

“Yes, Cataclysm,” Tikki answered. “It allows him to destroy whatever he touches, but only once each time he transforms.”

Joan crossed herself, and lifted the bottom of her doublet in a gesture for Tikki to hide herself. “You must conceal yourself again, Tikki. I need to speak with Sir de Metz before we leave for battle today.”

~

Jean de Metz was saddling his horse when Joan found him. He turned from his work immediately with a bow and a smile. “La Pucelle. To what do I owe the honor?”

Joan took a deep breath. “My time of service to the king is ending,” she started. “I have been betrayed. I know the ring you wear is a Miraculous, and that its powers are far more dangerous than mine.” Jean tried to say something, but she kept going before he could get out so much as a single syllable. “You must promise me that no matter what happens to me, you will not use your powers of destruction.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Promise me, Jean,” she begged.

“Jhennette, where is this coming from?” he demanded. “You cannot ask something like this of me without so much as an explanation. What do you mean, you've been betrayed? By whom? And why would you presume that I would use my kwami's powers because of that?”

“Desperation can drive men to dangerous extremes,” Joan replied, and Tikki knew she was thinking of her own desperate use of the Lucky Charm which had led to her leg injury back in Paris. “I cannot tell you the details; my counsel has forbidden it. But I have been betrayed, and I will likely not be with you in this city tonight when our fight has finished.”

Despite Joan's request for her to stay hidden, Tikki risked peeking out of her hiding place to look at Jean. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he looked like he was struggling not to argue with Joan.

“Please promise me,” Joan requested again. “The last thing that France needs right now is more destruction. Even aimed against Burgundy, it will still harm those of our people who are living in Compiegne.” When he continued to hesitate, she said, “If that is not persuasion enough for you, Sir Jean de Metz, then consider it an order from your commander la Pucelle. You swore an oath of fealty to me in Vaucouleurs. Do not break it now.”

Tikki watched Jean's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed whatever protests he had left. Then he sighed, and bowed to Joan.

“As my commander wishes,” he said. “And may it be in accord with the will of God, whatever that may be.”

Joan beamed at him. “Thank you, Jean. Now then, we have a trip to make to Margny. Let us not keep our Burgundian foes waiting.” And she turned on her heel to fetch her horse.

Their raid on the Burgundian camp at Margny did not go well. Tikki hoped it didn't have anything to do with Joan's prediction. They would have been fine, and in fact might have won a hard-earned victory, if it hadn't been for an ambush from Burgundian reinforcement troops hiding behind the Mont-de-Clairoix. But at that point there were too many enemies to fight. Joan reluctantly called for a retreat.

“You lead the men back to Compiegne,” she instructed Jean and Friar Pasquerel. “I will take up the rear.” Jean looked like he wanted to argue again, but did as he was asked without protest. Probably so as not to give Friar Pasquerel any undue alarm. Joan watched them go and then turned to join the rear guard.

“I hope he will forgive me,” she murmured to Tikki. “I may never see him again.”

If Tikki hadn't been inside the Miraculous, she would have told Joan not to talk that way. Not that Joan would have listened.

It was unnerving to be in the rear guard during the retreat. Every time Joan glanced over her shoulder to check if the Burgundians were still in pursuit, they seemed to be getting closer. There was nothing between her and them except for a small stretch of land that became even smaller with every passing minute.

The drawbridge was already lowered for the army when they reached Compiegne. Joan and the rear guard stayed on the far side of the moat in an attempt to hold back the Burgundians while the rest of the army hurried across the drawbridge as fast as they could.

And then, while Joan was busy thumping Burgundian soldiers over the head with the butt of her sword, Tikki heard a terrible noise.

The drawbridge was being raised.

The rear guard was trapped outside.

As soon as the drawbridge had closed on them, their opponents swarmed and surged around them, laughing and jeering.

“Well, now, la Pucelle, how about that! Your people have abandoned you to die!”

“May as well surrender, no?”

One of the Burgundians spat at her feet. “Go on, witch, surrender.”

“Let's hear it, then! Surrender!”

“Surrender, vachère, and maybe we won't kill you for a day or two.”

Joan glared at them all, her head held high and her sword still in her hand. “I would rather die.”

“Oh, come now, _bitch_ ,” another voice said, this one almost directly behind her, “your pride will do you no good when we send you to hell.” A hand clamped around the back of her pauldron, and Joan was yanked backwards off her horse. There was more raucous laughter. A knight, obviously a nobleman from the quality of his armor, rode up from the ranks to look her over. His face was stony and cold like it had been chiseled out of marble.

“Joan la Pucelle,” he said, and in his heavily accented French the name sounded hideously like a hiss. “On behalf of my lord Count John of Luxembourg, you are now my prisoner.”

Joan had been right. Her “year and a little more” was up.

~

Joan's time as a Burgundian prisoner was excruciatingly long. After she had been taken captive, her armor and weapons had been confiscated, along with a golden ring she had been gifted by her parents. Tikki and the Miraculous had only escaped confiscation because she had slipped the earrings under her doublet while the guards weren't looking. She took to pinning them to the aiguillettes of her doublet, where they would be safe and out of sight. When she had been their captive for about a month, she made an escape attempt. It only succeeded in earning her a larger number of guards.

Tikki did her best to keep Joan's spirits up. The poor girl seemed to have been broken by her defeat. It was almost impossible to get her to smile. Tikki phased through walls, snuck around the fortress, spied on conversations, whatever she could manage that might give her news of what was happening in the ongoing war. She didn't relay most of it to Joan, but she did report when she heard news of France's attempts to get her back. She got a slight smile from her charge when she reported that Charles was doing everything in his power to ransom her from her captors. It was the happiest Joan had looked in weeks.

They moved her to another fortress in July, and to the castle of Beaurevoir in August. It was at the castle that Joan met John of Luxembourg's aunt, also named Joan, who had apparently stood as Charles' godmother in 1403. The noblewoman took a liking to Joan, and fought very hard to keep her nephew from selling her to the English—Tikki overheard several conversations between the two that made it sound like John was losing out on a _very_ large sum of money for holding out on ransoming her. Joan appreciated her kindness, but would rather have been released then kept in Burgundy's hands indefinitely. She said as much to Tikki multiple times.

And then Joan of Luxembourg died in mid-September.

It didn't take long after that for John to begin conducting ransom negotiations with the English. Tikki had no choice but to relay the news to Joan when her charge asked what was to become of her. Joan scowled.

“I would rather die than be in the hands of the English,” she said.

She almost did die, once. Her second escape attempt was far more dangerous than her first; she attempted to jump out the window of the room where she was being kept, which was three floors off the ground. She survived somehow, but the tradeoff was that the number of her guards was increased again. Tikki feared what she might attempt if she actually ended up in English hands.

In November, Joan was sold to the English for ten thousand livres, and taken to the secular prison in Rouen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Charles freaking TRIED, man. He really freaking tried to get her back. He threatened to adopt whatever standards were used in Joan's imprisonment, and to use those standards on France's Burgundian prisoners. La Hire and Durand even conducted four military campaigns trying to get her back. Whoever betrayed her (that knowledge is lost to time), it sure as heck wasn't Charles like the popular media tends to portray.


	12. I Abjure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used like three or four different translations of her trial transcripts for this chapter and it was brutal. I am never doing something that requires this much research for a fic ever again.

Joan's trial began in late February.

The first few examinations were relatively short. Maybe three or four hours at most, which, all things considered, wasn't terrible. It was much shorter than Tikki had been expecting. The English clergymen who had been chosen to conduct the trial deigned, at the very least, to let the examinations be open to the public. But Joan was kept firmly chained during the examinations, both at her wrists and at her ankles. The room was at least somewhat warm, although that seemed to be more for the inquisitors' benefit than anything else. Certainly the cell where she was kept the rest of the time wasn't warm. The cold seeped through the walls like a numbing haze. Tikki harbored a very, very small hope that maybe the examination attendees would take enough issue with the way Joan was being treated that some action might be taken to save her, but it was more a dream than anything else. There were anywhere from fifty to seventy clergymen present for each of her examinations. It would have taken a miracle for there to be any backlash against so many allegedly holy men, especially in an English-controlled city.

Many of the questions repeated themselves from one examination to the next. The inquisitors particularly liked to focus on Joan's male attire. Where she had started to wear it, why, who had told her to do so, would she wear women's clothes if they were provided to her—over and over again, the same cycle every time. Joan held firm in her answers, and informed her interrogators that if she were given over to a church prison, with women to guard her, she would give up her male attire. But only then. If she were kept in the military prison, then she would continue to wear men's clothes for so long as it pleased God. Tikki asked why after the fourth public examination, and was given the reply “I must protect my virtue from those here who would attempt to destroy it.”

It was a valid enough response. The guards who were assigned to monitor Joan day in and day out were all unsavory in character. Some of them had made comment on her physique, or used military terminology to make crass jokes towards her. One had said he was certain that Joan knew how to use “more than one sort of sword;” Joan retorted by telling him, remarkably polite even in her disgust and irritation, exactly where she would have put her sword if she had still had it. Tikki was pretty sure the named location would have been an anatomical impossibility. Some of the other guards were grabby. Her clothes were yanked, her upper arms grabbed far more than necessary for being escorted to and from her cell, her neck blown on. She would have probably punched them if she could have, but her chains prevented her from ever doing so. Instead she was forced to settle for icy glares that, in France, would have made her fellow commanders freeze up in fear. The guards seemed to think that it was funny. Every so often one of them would comment that her glare was far too unpleasant an expression for “a pretty little vachère like you.” That only made her glare at them all the more. But Tikki knew that she prayed for God to forgive them when she spoke to her voices every day.

The inquisitors also interrogated her relentlessly about her voices. Tikki could at least somewhat understand why that was such a huge focus. Church officials would be able to tell whether Joan's voices were really the saints she claimed them to be, or something else. But none of their questions seemed to be directed towards figuring that out. They were more occupied with pressing her for details of her voices' counsel which she had already told them she was not permitted to share.

By the time Joan's fifth examination came around, Tikki knew enough of what they were probably going to ask that she knew she may as well tune them out for a while. They started with some of the letters that Joan had written, reading all of them aloud and pressing her for details, while Tikki focused on huddling close to her under her doublet to offer comfort and encouragement.

“Do you know this letter?”

“Yes, excepting three words. In place of 'give up to the Maid,' it should say 'give up to the King;' where it says 'war captain' and 'body for body' were not in the letter I sent. None of the lords ever dictated these letters to me; it was I myself alone who dictated them before sending them, though I did show them to some of my party.” While the inquisitors were still murmuring among themselves about her reply, Joan added, “Before seven years are passed, the English will lose a greater stake than they have already lost at Orleans; they will lose everything in France. The English will have in France a greater loss than they have ever had, and that by a great victory which God will send to the French.”

The entire room, including the audience this time, exploded into disturbed murmuring. The presiding clergyman, a bishop named Cauchon, signaled everyone to be silent.

“How do you know this?” Beaupere, the theologian assigned to conduct the examination, asked.

“I know quite well by a revelation made to me,” Joan answered, “and that it will happen within seven years; and I might well be angry that it should be delayed so long. I know it by revelation, as plainly as I know that you are here before me.”

“When will this happen?”

“I know neither the day nor the hour.”

“In what year will it happen?” Beaupere tried again.

“You will not yet learn that; but truly I wish it were before the feast of Saint John.”

Tikki tuned out again, mulling on Joan's prediction. It was a very bold claim, to be sure, and there was no way to verify it until the seven years had passed. Even without listening to the interrogation going on, Tikki was fairly certain she knew what they would ask Joan, and what her reply would be: they would want to know who had given her this revelation, and she would undoubtedly say that her saints had told it to her. Sure enough, when Tikki began to listen to the questions again, they were back on the topic of Joan's voices.

“Is their hair long and flowing?”

“I know nothing about it. I do not know if they have arms or other members. They speak very well and in good language; I hear them very well.”

“How do they speak if they have no members?” Beaupere challenged.

“I leave that to God,” Joan replied. “The voice is lovely, sweet, and low, and it speaks in the French tongue.”

“Does not Saint Margaret speak English?”

Tikki could hear the smirk in Joan's voice as she countered, “Why would she speak English, when she is not on the English side?”

Seemingly realizing that that particular line of inquiry would get him nowhere, Beaupere took another approach. “On these crowned heads, were there rings in the ears or elsewhere?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Have you any rings yourself?”

“You have one of mine; give it back to me. The Burgundians have another. I pray you, if you have my ring, show it to me.”

Naturally, Cauchon and the others refused to do so. They instead continued to hound her about her voices.

“In what likeness did Saint Michael appear to you?”

“I did not see a crown; I know nothing of his dress.”

“Was he naked?”

“Do you think God cannot clothe him?”

“Had he hair?”

“Why would it have been cut off?”

Tikki wanted to hug Joan and never let go. Some of her old spirit was coming back. Prison hadn't completely broken her. There had been sparks of it, here and there—during her third examination Beaupere had asked her if she was in God's grace, a dangerous question that would have condemned her whether she said yes or no, and her reply had been a beautifully simple “if I be not in a state of grace, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me”—but this was Joan and all her wit and cleverness like Tikki hadn't seen it in months.

And apparently, it was too much for her inquisitors. They held only one more public session before they decided, for whatever reason, that it would be better to interrogate her in private, in her cell, where her brilliant responses were concealed from the public eye. Again and again they examined her, turning their focus from her clothing in favor of squeezing out of her every last detail of the signs she had given Charles at Chinon. Tikki wasn't sure if it was an improvement or not.

Joan took the shift in stride. Over the course of the first and fourth private examinations, she wove for the inquisitors a story of an angel who had presented a crown to Charles before his eyes. The angel had gone with her into the audience chamber, had knelt when she knelt, had spoken to her king. When Charles had asked her for proof, the angel had given the crown to the archbishop, who had then given it to the king. “It is well to know it was of fine gold,” she told her inquisitors. “It was so rich that I do not know how to count its riches or to appreciate its beauty.”

The inquisitors locked on her description of the angel, though. “Is it for any merit of your own that God sent you this angel?”

“He came for a great purpose, in the hope that the king would believe the sign, and that people would cease to oppose me, and would aid the good people of Orleans. The angel came for the merits of the king and of the good Duke of Orleans.”

“Why did this happen to you rather than to another?”

“It has pleased God to do this through a simple maiden, to drive back the enemies of the king,” she answered simply.

The inquisitors gave up on that line of interrogation shortly thereafter, and turned the examination back to the subject of Joan's voices.

“There was no angel at Chinon,” Tikki whispered to Joan when the inquisitors had left for the day and the two of them were alone in her cell. “Why are you lying to them?”

Joan smiled, very, very faintly. “It's symbolic, Tikki. The angel presenting the crown to King Charles was myself.”

Tikki was floored. Not only had Joan protected her promise to never reveal the sign she had given to Charles, she had done so in a way that had allowed her to tell the truth and still convince her interrogators that they knew what her sign to Charles had been. After the mentally draining examinations day after day, and the nonstop harassment of her guards, it was incredible almost to the point of being miraculous that she still had the razor-sharp wit to pull off such a feat. She nuzzled her charge.

“I told you that an angel had gone to rescue Orleans,” she murmured.

Joan's lips tipped up, just a little, on one side. “I suppose in a way you were right.” One of the guards turned to look into her cell, and she hunched her shoulders, as if in defeat, to hide Tikki from view.

The next several examinations focused almost exclusively on Joan's voices, and on trying once again to convince Joan to wear women's clothes. The inquisitors tried everything they could to persuade Joan that her voices were evil spirits rather than saints. They latched onto the idea as soon as Joan mentioned that her voices had promised that she would be freed from prison. She was not going to be freed by the English, they pointed out, and no one had come to her rescue to attempt freeing her by force. Her voices had lied to her. But Joan stood firm in insisting that she knew her voices to be those of the saints. As for her clothing, she maintained the same position she'd had since the very first examination. If they would allow her to reside in a women's church prison, she would gladly wear women's clothing, but if not, she would continue to wear her current clothes.

The examinations concluded on March seventeenth with the final desperate question, “Why was your standard taken to the church of Rheims for the coronation before those of the other captains?”

Joan replied, “It had borne the pain, it was only right that it should bear the honor.”

The inquisitors departed then, presumably to begin their deliberations as to what they should do with Joan. They did not return until the twenty-fourth, and then only to read over the trial register so that she might confirm her answers to all of their questions. Their next visit was on the twenty-seventh, to read a list of seventy accusations they had drafted against her. Some weren't surprising—their accusations that she was wearing men's clothes in defiance of the Church, their statements that she was entangled with evil spirits, and so on—but others were so absurd that Tikki almost gave her own existence away with an indignant exclamation of protest. Joan dismissed the falsehoods, plausible and ridiculous, all the same way: “I deny it.”

Their articles of accusation came back again and again, shorter but still woefully full of lies. Again and again, Joan denied them, and repeated what she had told the inquisitors during her examinations. They threatened her with fire and torture, tried to bribe her by promising her Mass and the Holy Eucharist if she submitted, all to no avail. She stood firm.

And then came May twenty-fourth.

In the years to come, Tikki would hate May twenty-fourth with every fiber of her being.

It was early morning, maybe nine or ten o'clock, when footsteps began to echo down the passageway outside Joan's cell. Tikki cringed. The inquisitors were back.

But wait…there was only one set of footsteps sounding.

Who was it, then?

The cell door creaked open. “Congratulations, little witch,” one of the guards said in the usual mocking tone. “It would appear you get to go on a trip today.”

Joan didn't say anything in reply, but Tikki felt the shift of fabric around her as Joan stood and went to the door. Her chains clattered and rattled with every step.

“Good morning,” a man's voice said, and Tikki recognized it as that of Jean Massieu, the clergyman who had been serving as bailiff at all of Joan's examinations. She relaxed, just a little. The bailiff was better company for Joan than the interrogators. Not for the first time, Tikki wondered if he felt any semblance of pity for this girl who was being maltreated so spitefully. It had seemed like it, every now and then, but if he did, it didn't disturb his conscience enough for him to oppose the inquisitors.

Joan afforded him a word of greeting in response, but the rest of their walk to wherever he was taking her was made in silence. If it had just been Tikki and Joan, or if Massieu would have escorted Joan from in front rather than from behind, Tikki would have offered her a comforting pat or a hug, something to remind her that she wasn't alone. But, limited by the need to hide from anyone who might confiscate the Miraculous from Joan were Tikki to be discovered, all she could do was nestle a little closer to Joan's side under the cover of her doublet.

Just when Tikki was beginning to think this was an awfully long trip to make for another exhortation or examination, Joan froze with a sharp intake of breath. “Is—is that—”

“I'm sorry,” Massieu said, and for once Tikki believed he really, truly meant it. It was enough of an abnormality that, coupled with Joan's evident shock, she couldn't resist lifting the bottom of Joan's doublet to catch a glimpse of whatever the hell was going on.

They were in the abbey cemetery. That was the first thing she noticed.

The second thing she noticed was the scaffold that had been erected.

They were planning to burn Joan.

Joan's hands grasped at the front hem of her doublet, her fingers creeping under to make a shooing motion at Tikki.

_Escape._

Tikki wanted to stay with Joan. God help her, she wanted to stay with Joan, even if that meant burning. But she knew that wasn't an option. The Miraculous were magical; they wouldn't be damaged by the fire, and then they would be found when Joan had been burned, and Tikki's existence would be outed. She couldn't stay.

Tikki squeezed Joan's pinky as tight as she could, holding on for several seconds. “I'm so sorry, Joan,” she whispered. Slowly, she let go, and unpinned the Miraculous from their hiding place before zipping out to conceal herself elsewhere while Jean's back was turned.

She watched from behind a tombstone as the inquisitors filed into the cemetery in front of the scaffold. Joan was escorted up onto the platform, where Massieu held her in place as something was read to her. Tikki was too far away to hear what was said, but judging by the defiant tilt of Joan's head, she was refusing to abjure again.

The inquisitors waited a moment after they had finished reading, obviously expecting a response, but Joan said nothing. They murmured to one another, and then one of the bishops began to read another piece of paper in front of him. Tikki didn't need to hear him to know what it was.

It was a death sentence.

An executioner, whom Tikki hadn't spotted in her initial panic, began to come forward. He held a burning torch in his hand. Joan stared at him, and at the fire, as if transfixed with terror.

The bishop was still reading when Joan interrupted in a horrid, panicked voice that even Tikki in her faraway hiding place could hear.

“I will hold all that the Church ordains, all that you, the judges, wish to say and decree—in all I will refer myself to your orders!”

The bishop stopped reading, and looked up at Joan on the scaffold, his eyebrows raised in calm surprise.

“Inasmuch as the clergy have declared that the apparitions and revelations which I have had are not to be upheld or believed, I will not uphold them; in all I refer myself to you and to our Holy Mother Church!”

And like a terrified child, she repeated those words over and over, her voice close to breaking, until they forced her to sign a paper declaring her abjuration.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan was THE sass queen during her trial. You can find lots of translations of her trial online, and there are some absolutely golden lines. Like when she said she knew only one Burgundian, whose head she would have liked to see chopped off if it pleased God. The transcripts are long, but holy crap can you find some absolute gems if you're patient enough to read through them.


	13. Even Unto Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like crying your eyes out, please play Audrey Assad's version of "Be Thou My Vision" while you read the last scene. I freaking lost it while I was trying to write this.

Joan's hair was shaven close to the scalp and she was given women's clothes after her abjuration, which she put on when she had been brought back to her cell. Tikki rejoined her there, sneaking in through the outer wall to avoid being seen by the guards.

Her charge sat in the corner of her cell, staring blankly at the wall across from her, her hands folded limp and unmoving in her lap. “I abjured,” she said in a hollow voice when Tikki landed on her knee with the earrings. “I have betrayed my counsel and my God.” A single tear made its way down her cheek. “What have I done?”

Tikki started to nestle against Joan's hand to comfort her, but the cell door creaked open again, and she was forced to phase through her charge's skirt instead to hide from the guards who entered.

“What could you possibly want with me?” Joan asked them, still in that terrible hollow voice.

“Come now, vachère, is that any way to talk to us?” one of the guards taunted. Joan was yanked to her feet.

“Let go of me!” The hollow tone was gone from her voice, replaced with the keening edge of panic.

“Not so confident without your heretic's garb, are you?” the other guard remarked in a disgustingly honeyed tone. “Under all that bravado, you're just a woman like any other.”

“I said, let _go_ of me!” Tikki could tell from the way she was bracing herself that Joan was doing her best to pull away from the two, but her chains were hindering her efforts. She couldn't even break their grasp. “Let go! Stop touching me! _Stop touching me!_ ”

“Aw, but didn't you change for us, vachère? This is so much easier to remove than that pesky hosen.” Someone's hand tugged at Joan's skirt, and Tikki's heart leapt up into her throat. She needed to find somewhere else to hide—but where? And how was she supposed to conceal herself from the guards and protect Joan at the same time?

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Ouch!” The tugging at her skirt stopped. “The witch bit me!”

There was a harsh slapping sound, and Joan went tumbling to the ground.

“You bitch,” one of the guards said. “Mark my words, _la Pucelle_ , we are not finished with you.”

When Tikki finally dared to come back out from her hiding place, Joan had one hand pressed to a hideous red welt on her tear-stained cheek, and her other clutching at the disheveled collar of her dress.

~

The guards made good on their promise. Over and over, they grabbed her, cornered her, fumbled at her clothes and their own, only stopping when Joan bit or got in a good elbow to the gut. The men's clothing which she had been wearing before was dumped in a sack in one corner, a deliberate temptation in the midst of the sexual harassment she was enduring. But she stubbornly kept wearing the dress she had been given.

Until, on May twenty-seventh, the guards stole her dress while she was in bed.

They dumped the male clothing out onto the floor in front of her, laughing the whole time, and stuffed her dress into the sack. Joan sat bolt upright in her bed and stared at the men's clothing as if she thought they might be poisonous. They may as well have been, knowing the consequences she would suffer if she put them on.

“Please, return my clothes to me,” she said to the guards.

They laughed again. One of them pointed to the men's clothes on the floor. “There are your clothes; put them on.”

“You know as well as I that the judges have prohibited me from wearing this clothing,” Joan protested. “Please, I must relieve myself. Return my clothes to me.”

“You have your clothes there,” the guard repeated.

“Sirs, you know this is forbidden me; without fail, I will not accept it.”

“Without fail, we will not give you a woman's garb,” another guard said, in an exaggerated mockery of her tone of voice. “You have clothing there; men's or women's, it is what you ought to wear.”

“I will not. Now return my clothing to me at once.”

But the guards kept refusing, and Joan could only hold out for so long—she had to relieve herself, and there was nowhere to do so in her tiny cell, which meant that sooner or later she would have to dress and leave her cell. She eventually gave up around noon, and put on the men's clothing which she had been trying so hard to avoid wearing. When she returned from relieving herself, she tried again to convince the guards to return her dress, with the same results.

And then the inquisitors came to see her the next day.

“When did you put on men's clothing?”

“I have but recently resumed men's clothes and abandoned women's.”

“Why did you take it, and who induced you to do so?”

“I took them of my own free will,” she answered solemnly, “without being forced; and truthfully I prefer these clothes to women's.”

It was the only out-and-out lie Tikki would ever remember her uttering.

“You promised and swore you would never resume wearing men's clothing,” one of the inquisitors reminded her.

“I never understood myself to be taking such an oath.”

“Why have you resumed it?” she was asked again.

“As I am among men, it is more lawful and appropriate that I should wear men's clothes rather than women's. I have resumed it because your promise to me has not been kept; that is, that I should go to Mass and receive the body of Christ and that I should be released from my chains.”

“Did you not make an oath never to take men's clothes?”

“I would rather die than be in chains,” Joan said firmly. “But if you allow me to go to Mass, and release me from my chains and place me in an agreeable prison with a woman for my companion, I will be good and do as the Church wills.”

“Since last Thursday, have you heard your voices?”

Her answer was a blissful exhale. “Yes.”

“What did they tell you?”

“They said to me that God had sent me word of the great pity it is that I betrayed Him, when I abjured and recanted to save my life. I damned my soul to save my life. Before Thursday, my voices had told me what I should do, and I did it. When I was on the scaffold, my voices instructed me that I should answer the preacher boldly.” Her voice took on a sorrowful, bitter curl. “In truth he is a false preacher; he accused me of many things which I have never done. If I said that God had not sent me, I would damn myself, for truly I was sent by God. My voices have told me since Thursday that I have done a great evil in saying that what I had done was wrong. Whatever I said and recanted, I said for fear of the flames.”

Tikki's heart sank. She knew, at that moment, that there would no longer be any mercy for Joan.

~

The next day went by unbearably fast. Tikki spent most of it huddled up close to Joan's side, holding on with every ounce of strength she had. They didn't talk much. Both of them knew what was coming, and they would say their goodbyes when it came, but for the time being it was better to sit in silence and just be together.

After suppertime, footsteps approached down the hall. Joan's head snapped up to look at her cell door with dread. Tikki buried her face in Joan's clothes as murmurs floated in from the hallway. Then the cell door was opening, and Joan was standing, and Tikki hid herself under the bed in a rush.

“You needn't hide from me, Tikki.”

It was the great guardian's voice.

Slowly, Tikki popped back out from under the bed. She was greeted by the great guardian's kind smile. Joan looked back and forth between the two of them in obvious confusion.

“Joan d'Arc,” the great guardian said, inclining his head to her. “It is a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

Joan's mouth popped open in surprise. “You're…”

He nodded. “The elderly gentleman whom you aided in carrying wares across Domremy, yes.”

She turned to look at Tikki. “And…”

“He's the one who brought me to you,” Tikki answered. “This is the great guardian. He protects all of the Miraculous, and distributes them to those who are worthy during times of trouble.” She turned her attention to the great guardian. “If you're here, then…”

The great guardian nodded again, his expression turning sorrowful. “It is time for you and Jhennette to part ways. We cannot risk the Miraculous falling into the wrong hands.”

A sharp wave of pain stabbed through Tikki's heart. She'd known it was coming. She really had. But it had come much sooner than she had wanted. Joan bit her bottom lip to keep it from wobbling; it looked like she was as upset about the notion as Tikki was.

The great guardian bowed his head. “I will give you time to say goodbye.”

Tikki flew straight to Joan's cheek to hug her. Joan's hand came up to cradle the back of Tikki's head.

“Thank you for everything, Tikki,” she whispered. Tikki felt a tear drop onto the top of her head. “You have been such a gift in my mission.”

Tikki nuzzled her cheek against Joan's fingertips. “I only gave you added protection. Everything else was all your doing. You're the bravest girl I've ever known.” She tried to smile at Joan, but it was hard to smile when her eyes were filling with tears and she was on the cusp of sobbing. “You truly are.”

“I could have died at Orleans without your help,” Joan reminded her. Another tear fell on Tikki's head. “And then what would have become of their Maid? You have been a great gift, and my best aid.” She lifted one finger to tap the dot on Tikki's forehead, just as she had done so many times in the past three years. “I am sorry for ever having thought you were a daemon. It's clear to me now that God brought me to you, and you to me, so that we could accomplish this mission together and show the world His glory.”

Tikki choked down another sob. “If anyone ever deserved to go to heaven, it's you.”

Joan chuckled, and smiled through her tears. “Don't attempt to speak for God, Tikki.” She rubbed the spot on Tikki's forehead. “My counsel has promised me I will be delivered tomorrow, in a great victory for His kingdom. It will be a greater victory even than Orleans. My martyrdom.”

Tikki couldn't say anything to that. She was crying too much to say anything anymore.

Her charge squeezed her close one final time. “Be of good heart, Tikki. By the grace of God, I can go to Paradise tomorrow.”

~

Joan was to be burned the next morning in the old market square of Rouen. The great guardian thought that it might not be a good idea to go watch, but Tikki insisted until he gave in. She was going to be there for Joan even if only as one of those looking on.

Joan stood before her condemners on the platform that had been erected for her to hear her sentence, her white shift fluttering around her ankles. She looked tiny and insignificant on that great platform, with all the robed clergymen opposite her in their glittering baubles and miters, her beautiful black hair shaved to dark fuzz and her deceptively delicate body sheathed in the white of a death shroud. While one of the priests read some long-winded sermon about pruning dead branches off the vine and protecting the Church from heresy, she remained upright and calm. They concluded their sermon with a sentence of her excommunication from the Church, and she was abandoned to the secular authorities.

That was when Joan broke down crying.

As Massieu escorted her down from the platform and took her to where the executioner had already prepared for the fire, she called on the Trinity, on the Virgin Mary, on all the saints she could name and the rest of their communion besides, professing her faith throughout.

“Please,” she begged of the people she was taken past, and of the soldiers who waited at the bottom of the scaffold, “pray for me and for my soul. And forgive me—” she choked on her words, and had to restart her sentence. Tikki, hiding under the cover of the great guardian's hat, stifled her tears. “Forgive me and pardon me for any wrongs I have done any of you, for though I will be killed and my body destroyed by these judges today I pardon them as my Lord Jesus Christ has pardoned my sins. You, Cauchon, who have excommunicated me, and all you judges who have aided him, yes, I forgive you. Though I die through you, I forgive you.”

She kept praying and begging for pardon for a long time, and Tikki wasn't sure her heart could take much more of her lamentations, and even some of the priests who had just condemned her were beginning to cry by the time she was placed on the scaffold. Massieu stayed with her, his hand on her shoulder. She said something more softly, which Tikki couldn't hear from her position. An English soldier near her picked up a stick from the ground and broke it in two, and fashioned a little cross out of it with a piece of string. He offered it to Joan. She took it, smiling at him through her tears, and kissed the cross several times before pressing it to her breast. Again she said something to Massieu, and he spoke to a Dominican priest standing off to the side. The Dominican hurried off, and Joan resumed her prayers and weeping. He came back with the crucifix from the nearby church.

Joan flung her arms around the crucifix, holding it tightly to herself as if it were a lifeline.

One of the English soldiers by the scaffold cut through her prayers. “What, priest,” he said to Massieu, “are you going to keep us here till suppertime?” Massieu was shunted out of the way, off of the scaffold, and Joan tugged away from the crucifix to be tied to the stake.

They didn't even bother to read her death sentence from the secular authorities. The one who tied her to the stake only said to the executioner, “Do your duty.”

The Dominican priest still stood on the scaffold with the crucifix. “Wait,” Joan said to the executioner, and then, to the priest, she said, “Please, move down from the scaffold, and then raise the crucifix very high, and never let it leave my eyes.”

He did as he was told, and the executioner lit his fire beneath the scaffold.

Tikki couldn't see much of what happened after that. Her vision was far too blurred by tears. But the crucifix never wavered from its position in front of Joan's eyes, and over the crackling of the flames, Tikki heard Joan cry, “Jesus!” As the smoke began to rise, the cry came again. “Jesus!”

 _Be strong, Joan,_ Tikki pleaded silently. _If ever anyone deserved to go to heaven, it's you. You've earned your reward. Your suffering is almost over._

Joan continued to cry out the name of Jesus for several minutes before, at long last, her eyes fluttered shut, and her head drooped down over the little stick cross still pressed to her breast.

It was finished.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The executioner had a bit of a mental breakdown after it was all over. He told someone that he was afraid he was going to go to hell because he had burned a saint. Talk about an "I effed up" moment.


	14. Epilogue

“I'm gonna be so late!” Marinette wailed as she scrambled up the stairs of the metro exit. “Alya's going to kill me!”

Tikki popped her head out of Marinette's purse, holding onto the side with one hand to keep herself stable as the purse swung back and forth. “You still have a couple minutes before Kim and Alix start their dare, don't you? Relax! It'll be fine.”

“But I just got off the metro, and the Jardin des Tuilieres is huge! It'll take me forever to find them! I knew I should have taken a different line to get there!”

“Just let her know you'll be a little late, then,” Tikki suggested. “I'm sure they wouldn't mind waiting for you.”

“I guess I don't have much of a choice,” Marinette groaned. She slowed down to dig her phone out of her pocket, and called Alya while she speed-walked down the street. “Hi, Alya? Yeah, no, I'm on my way right now! It's just, I was on the wrong metro line, and it dropped me off kind of far away, but I swear I'll be there soon. No, really! I'm coming up on Place des Pyramides right now. I'll see you in a minute. Where are you guys?”

Just then, Tikki noticed the tall statue they were approaching. Three flags waved behind the golden figure, who rode atop a charger and carried a battle standard in their right hand. As Marinette drew closer to the statue, Tikki noticed the figure's long hair swept back into a knot at the nape of its neck. It was a woman.

“Okay, by the Place du Carrousel, got it, I'll be there really soon!” Marinette faltered as Tikki, transfixed by the statue, tapped her side. “Uh, yeah, I'm practically there already! Seeyousoonbye!” She hung up and looked down at Tikki. “What's wrong?”

Tikki pointed to the statue. “Who is that supposed to be?” She had her guesses, but it was a woefully inaccurate depiction if she was right.

Marinette looked up at the statue, and then back down at Tikki. “You're thousands of years old. Don't tell me you've never heard of Joan d'Arc. She totally kicked butt during the Hundred Years' War!”

Tikki smiled. That was certainly one way of putting it. “I've heard of her.” As they drew up beside the statue and Marinette prepared to cross the street, Tikki flew out of her purse. “You go ahead and have fun with Alya and the others. I think I'll stay here for a minute.”

Marinette looked at her in wide-eyed confusion. “But what if somebody sees…?”

“It'll be fine,” Tikki promised her. “I won't be seen. I just want to pay my respects to an old friend.”

Marinette's eyes went, if possible, even wider as she understood what Tikki meant. “You mean—”

“You're going to be late,” Tikki reminded her. “Go on. I'll tell you everything later, I promise.”

Marinette probably would have argued, but her phone buzzed with an impatient call from Alya, and so she gave up and started her dash across the street to the garden. “I'm coming right now!”

Tikki sighed fondly—Marinette really was hopeless when it came to making it to things on time—and then turned to look up at the statue. The gaze was a little too stern to be Joan's, the hair too long, the face too time-worn, but the confidence Tikki remembered so well was there, in the set of the statue's posture and the way it held its banner aloft. She drifted up to the statue's face and nuzzled its cheek.

“Hello, Jhennette,” she whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Joan's family called for a nullification trial after her death. She was declared innocent and officially designated a martyr in 1456. On May 16th, 1920, she was canonized a Roman Catholic saint. She is the patroness of prisoners, and one of the many patrons and protectors of France.  
> Mark Twain would later write of her, "In the history of the human intellect, untrained, inexperienced, and using only its birthright equipment of untried capacities, there is nothing which approaches this. Joan of Arc stands alone, and must continue to stand alone, by reason of the unfellowed fact that in the things wherein she was great she was so without shade or suggestion of help from preparatory teaching, practice, environment, or experience. There is no one to compare her with, none to measure her by; for all others among the illustrious grew towards their high place in an atmosphere and surroundings which discovered their gift to them and nourished it and promoted it, intentionally or unconsciously. There have been other young generals, but they were not girls; young generals, but they had been soldiers before they were generals: she began as a general; she commanded the first army she ever saw; she led it from victory to victory, and never lost a battle with it; there have been young commanders-in-chief, but none so young as she: she is the only soldier in history who has held the supreme command of a nation's armies at the age of seventeen.   
> "She is easily and by far the most extraordinary person the human race has ever produced."


End file.
